The Reign of Sauron: An Alternate History
by LordofAngmarMB
Summary: The Quest of the Ring has failed. The War of the Ring is lost. Sauron has reclaimed the One Ring of Power and is ready to conquer all of Middle-Earth. Only the brave and the strong now oppose him, yet some question their alliances and others must make fateful decisions. The fate of Middle-Earth rests in the balance and soon all of the world might be under the Reign of Sauron.
1. Chapter 1: The End

Frodo Baggins, Hobbit of the Shire and Bearer of the One Ring of Power, strained his short arms as he pushed his boat away from the shores of the Anduin. He held back tears as he slowly made his way across the river. He tried to force his mind away from the thoughts of his friends and how they would react to his decision to leave them. He was sure that Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli would understand, but Merry and Pippin would surely hate him and poor Sam, poor poor Sam, he would be heartbroken. But it was for the best that he left. After Boromir had fallen to the sway of the Ring, he had finally seen the true danger of this terrible burden. He could not let his friends befall the same fate. He needed to destroy the Ring alone.

It was not long before Frodo reached the east shore, and he quickly dis embarked. He began to wander into the woods towards the rocky land of Emyn Muil, but turned when he heard a desperate cry from the other shore. He peaked out of a bush to see Sam, his best friend and most loyal confidant, running up and down the bank. He was yelling Frodo's name and crying desperately for his friend. He eventually collapsed on his knees and began to sob like a child. Frodo, also on the verge of sobs, wiped the tears from his eyes and ran away from the sight. He told himself over and over that he could not let Sam be corrupted, and that it was for the best that he leave him. It was all for the best. It was all for the best.

 _Frodo Baggins found his way into Emyn Muil, where he was nearly killed by the creature Gollum, a former Ring bearer himself. Using the promise of the Ring as leverage, he had Gollum lead him through the stones and through the Dead Marshes. He came to trust Gollum during this time, and barely thought twice when he was led to the Morgul Pass rather than the Black Gate. It was at this time that he nearly fell completely to the sway of the Ring, and was led by both the Ring and his guide into the caves of Cirith Ungul. There, he met his doom. The great spider Shelob captured and consumed him, leaving the Ring to be taken up by Gollum. Already corrupted himself, Gollum was drawn further into Mordor, where he was slain by the orcs of Cirith Ungul, and the Ring taken up by a nameless Orc who was slain by another Orc who was slain by another Orc. Eventually, the Ring ended up in the hands of an Uruk captain who knew the importance of the Ring, and it came to the Tower of Barad-Dur, where its master waited. And so, quietly and without glory, the quest of the Ring failed and the reign of Sauron began._

Gandalf the White rested his weary hand on his companion's short shoulder. Peregrin Took fidgeted nervously as they overlooked the chaos surrounding the white city of Minas Tirith from its pinnacle. The forces of Mordor had entered the city, but they had been barred from entering the upper levels. In the distance, the forces of Rohan had come over the hills and were charging into the Orc host. For once, it seemed that all was going well. But then Gandalf felt it. It was like a simple shift in the air, a wrong turn in the current. But Gandalf knew what had happened.

Sauron had the One

A searing pain coursed through his arm. Gandalf screamed in agony as he clutched his wrist. The golden ring upon his finger that had been so well hidden by all the machinations of Elves and Wizards was now as radiant as a beacon and from its crimson gem burst sparks and flame. Pippin, startled by the wizard's sudden convulsions, stood still with a desperate expression across his face, lost as how to help his friend who had fallen to his knees . Gandalf, fighting through his blinding pain, placed his free hand on the young Hobbit's shoulder.

"Leave this place, Peregrin Took," he gasped through gritted teeth, "Flee as fast as you can!"

"But Gandalf, I want to…"

"Don't you understand? He has reclaimed the Ring! All who remain here are doomed. Now flee!"

Emerging out of the pain was a dark spirit, powerful and full of wrath. Pippin could no longer see the wizard that had filled his childhood with the joy of fireworks and a hearty smile. He could now see the true power of Gandalf the White emanate from his blazing eyes. He no longer felt fear of orcs or trolls or Ring-Wraiths or even Sauron himself. He fled from the terrible, blinding power of the White Wizard. He fled through streets and out of the city gate and away to where ever he could run. He never looked back, and yet it was for the best that he did not.

Gandalf, still upon his knees, fought with all his might against the dark will that encroached upon his mind. Sauron knew he had the elven ring, and was bending all His will against the Wizard. Caring not for the limitations of his physical form, Gandalf summoned all of the power he could muster to repel the Dark Lord. His mind became the battle ground of the greatest powers in all Middle Earth. Saruon struck with mighty hammers of hate and blades of cruelty, and yet the wizard held strong against the waves of wrath. And then He was gone. Gandalf's mind was clear of His presence. To where the Dark Lord had gone he did not know, yet, when he had regain the strength to do so, he tore away the ring from his charred and blackened hand and tossed it away. He could not risk using it again.

Gandalf fell back to his knees as a surge of power filled the air. He looked up towards the White Tree from across the long courtyard. It stood tall yet seemingly dead, but it shook violently despite the stillness of the air. The Guards of the Citidel, who had stood in silent vigilance up to this point, stepped back in fear, pointing their spears at the tree as if it might uproot itself and attack them. For the briefest of moments, all was quiet. There was no battle in the fields, and there was no army sieging the city. There was nothing but the silence. Then, as if a bolt of lightning had struck the tree, an eruption of raging thunder resounded from the square. A wall of fire exploded where the White Tree had once stood, its pale wood now scattered in a torrent of burning splinters. The guards were thrown back by the fire and the heat, and their black capes were alight. The wall of fire took the shape of a great eye and then opened like a gate from the very depths of Utumno itself. And from the portal He came. Tall and terrible, dark as death itself, Sauron, the Great Enemy and the Lord of the Rings, came. In one hand he clutched a great hammer and the other bore a shining band of gold. His helm was crowned with spears and his cape billowed in his wake. With a flick of his wrist, a wave of fire incinerated those of the guards that stood against him, leaving only red steel and charred bones where they stood. Mithrandir, ignoring the pain that the mere presence of Sauron imposed upon his form, stood in defiance of the Dark One.

"Go back!" he yelled, a raiment of light surrounding him, "Go back to your lands, servant of Morgoth!"

Sauron ceased his march, yet not for fear of the Wizard in his path.

"Olorin, I see you still breathe with the lungs of a mortal man," his voice was that of a dragon, honeyed and smoky yet stentorian and full of wrath, "Why is it, Istari, that you dare stand against me in such a pitiful form? I know the true depths of your power, you were one of Manwe's most prized pets, and yet he has cursed you to take such a humble body to oppose me. What wisdom lies in that?"

"I will not claim to know the mind of my master," Gandalf declared, "but his wisdom is greater than yours or your master's and I will not betray his command, deceiver. I will face you as a man!"

"Then you will die as one: bloodied and broken!" Sauron raised his hammer and swung down at the Wizard, who, drawing Glamdring, spun to the dark lord's side. He slashed at Sauron's arm, but his blade bounced harmlessly off the dark armor. Sauron, as if fanning away a fly, smashed his hammer against the Wizard, who was thrown further into the courtyard. Blood began to stain his white robes as he clambered back to his feet, ignoring the terrible pain in his chest. Refocusing his hazy vision, Gandalf noted Sauron and any possible weakness in his form that he could exploit. His whole body was incased in a suit of fell armor, forged of a dark steel that only he knew the secret of forging. Having apparently learned from his previous defeat, he had fashioned strong gauntlets to protect his fingers, specifically that which bore his Ring. Gandalf doubted that he could cut away the Ring as Isildur had done before him, at least while Sauron still maintained his wits. Physically defeating Sauron was next to impossible, unless he could draw him into making a mistake.

"What is wrong, Lord of the Earth?" he mocked, "can you not slay an old man with all your power? You claim to be a lord, yet all that stands before me is Morgoth's bitch!"

Sauron, who had remained regal and commanding in his composure, tensed and his voice was full of hate.

"Servant of Melkor, you call me? Morgoth's bitch? For all his might, what did Morgoth achieve that I have not? That fool was nothing but a raving idiot by the end of his reign, consumed by the chaos he so loved. I brought order, even during his time, to this world. I laid waste to elven kingdoms. I corrupted the hearts of men. I brought doom upon Numenor. I slew the kings of Elves and Men and violated their queens and made slaves of their children. Tell me, Wizard, by what knowledge can you make such claims?"

"Only the knowledge that any child could find in the most common tomes. You never were, nor will ever be, more than your master's shadow."

Sauron, alight from within, lunged at Gandalf, hammer ready to crush the insolent wizard into the ground. Gandalf summoned all the power he could manage into a shield of light around him. The dark hammer collided with the light again and again, each time growing brighter with wrathful flames. Gandalf, growing weary, stood steadfast against the onslaught, watching for any opportunity he might have to strike at the Ring and its finger. The hammer, reconstructed by some dark machination of Sauron, became a cruel blade, long and heavy and blazing with flames. It fell over and over upon the light, surrounding Gandalf with waves of fire and yet he did not waver. In a final furious move, Sauron extended his free arm, blasting the shield with a fire not of light but of shadow. It burned black and its fringes were alight with tongues of red and orange and, under this fateful assault, the shield fell. Gandalf, ignoring the pain of his burning body, lunged through the torrent and swung at Sauron's extended fingers. But Sauron would not fall for the same trick twice. Glamdring broke against Sauron's own blade, now barring the distance to the Ring. Shocked, Gandalf could not defend himself as his body was thrown once more across the courtyard.

He landed just shy of the edge of the great cliff that overlooked the city. He could see that, in the distance, Gondorian reinforcements from the south had arrived, along with a host of phantoms, but they were barred by a large force of Easterlings and were falling faster than their enemies. A small group of warriors, surrounded by the ghosts, were fighting their way to the city gates, but they would be too late. The forces of Rohan were scattered by the Haradrim, and the last vestiges of the Gondorian defense were either killed or captured the Orc host. All was soon to be lost. A single tear rolled down Gandalf's wrinkled cheek as he held back the urge to weep.

"How does it feel to know that you are responsible for all of their deaths?" Sauron loomed over the Wizard, also absorbing the vista of war, "You were sent here to oppose me without putting the races of this world at risk, and yet you used these people was your tools against me. No one needed to die, but you pushed them to oppose my rule. Their blood is on your hands."

Gandalf turned in a desperate attempt to take the ring from Sauron's hand, but he was thrown back down with ease and forced to stare back out at the now massacre of those he had sent into battle.

"Death is all that you have brought, Olorin. Death to these people. Death to those you call friends. Death to a Halfling sent on a doomed quest. Yes, Gandalf, he died, alone and in agony in the caves of the Morgul Vale. His death came by the spider there, but you killed him. I have committed many fateful and cruel acts, but I have embraced them. I make no claims to innocence. You have simply denied them, claiming to be a benevolent friend to those you send to the slaughter. Remember, all that follows, all my acts of revenge and wrath, are because of you."

Sauron pulled Gandalf onto his knees, giving him one last moment to see the fruits of all his labor.

"You are right," he choked on his tears, "I failed. I am so sorry, Frodo. I'm sorry for everything."

Sauron raised his blade.

"I'm sorry."

A single stroke, and the Wizard's head rolled off his shoulders. A moment passed, and Sauron turned away. He was stopped however, by the sound of a fell voice. Turning, he saw a white mist pouring from the fading body of Gandalf. It took the rough form of a man, tall and powerful, and whispering of his return with the army of the West. The mist began to shift, stepping away into Valanor. Gandalf was ready for his judgment and a chance at redemption, but Sauron would not let him have that peace. A black smoke, thick like a cloud of ash, enveloped the white mist. It extended from Sauron, drawing his enemy back. The mist fought against the smog, but it was already weary and broken, and so Sauron slew Gandalf in both body and soul.

"No!"

Sauron turned to the voice. Standing where the White Tree had been was a most peculiar host. There were three elves, two clad in the arms of Rivendell while the third was clad in the garb of the Woodland realm. A dwarf stood next to the third elf and beside him was a man clad in the garb of the Northmen. They were flanked by a host of the Dead, men of Dunharrow he believed, and at their head was a man. He was by no means a notable man, his stature was average and his face worn, but upon his hand was a silver ring and in his grasp was a blade. He knew this blade. Sauron stood before the heir of Elendil.

"So, after years of hunting Isildur's heir, he comes to me at the hour of my victory. How poetic." Sauron stared down at the frenzied eyes of the man. They were the same as the man who had caused him so much pain and inconvenience. Ignoring the urge to immediately burn the man to a crisp, he turned his attention to the host as a whole. "I have slain the wizard you placed so much hope in, but hope for your peoples may come in another fashion. Surrender now and your peoples will not come to a terrible end. Elves, Dwarves, Men: they all may have a place at my bountiful table. They will prosper under my wisdom. All that you must do to give them their place in my beautiful world is to surrender yourselves to me. You have the word of your new lord and master that they will be treated with kindness and dignity."

"I stand opposed to you, foul one!" shouted the man, pointing his sword up to the face of the Dark Lord, "I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the Throne of Gondor! You will fall again by this blade!"

"You speak with great confidence for such a small man." Sauron quipped with contempt in his voice, "I feel the weakness in your heart, your fear and your rage. Maybe you would speak more truthfully to your heart without a host of the dead at your back." Sauron, the Necromancer of Dol Guldor, raised his hand and extended his will over the city. Every ghost of Dunharrow saw the light of the halls of Mandos and faded from Arda.

"There is only one King, and you are merely a child attempting to overthrow a God. You are doomed."


	2. Chapter 2: The Night That Hope Died

Chapter 2

A billowing wind disturbed the uncanny stillness of the air around the Citadel of Minas Tirith. The courtyard was void of life and it was only the fading flames of the White Tree that wavered beneath the dark wings that carried a darker master. The Dark King of Minas Morgul whipped the reigns of his terrible mount, commanding it with silent words to cast its burden upon the stone beneath. The limp forms hit the ground with a pitiful thud, causing the larger of two bound figures to stop squirming. The fell beast of Mordor perched upon the furthest stone of the mount. The Witch-King of Angmar slipped from the beast's back, falling upon the stone with a lightness unnatural for a man of such size and so armed. From beneath his crown of nails, he took in the spectacle of the wake of his master's wrath.

Not only were there burning shards of the cursed tree and broken chunks of ancient masonry strewn about, but viscera and corpses defiled by the Dark Lord's power also decorated the once porcelain white citadel. In a sick twist of irony, the alliance of men, elves, and dwarf against Sauron had seemingly ended in catastrophic failure. While none but the Dark Lord himself could tell the tale of this battle in all its glory, it was easy for the well-trained eye of the battle tested Nazgul to infer what happened to the various resisters. He saw the remains of a Dwarf splattered against and smearing down the wall of the citadel. An Elf, was torn in two burned pieces and was, or rather were, thrown away as if he were waste. A man, one of the Dunédain, lay pinned to the ground by the blade of Sauron's greatsword, an injustice he found quite fulfilling, as that man's people had torn apart his reborn nation in the north long ago. Another Elf, of Rivendell by the remains of his armor, seemed to have exploded from the inside. The sight was mesmerizing, but he dare not linger upon the carnage lest he loose the chance to gain the favor of Sauron. Taking up the limp forms in his armored hands, he drug them into the house of kings.

"I come bearing gifts, my master!" The Witch-King of Angmar tossed the bodies into the long hall of shining marble with unnatural strength. The larger of the bodies, clad in the arms of a Rohiric rider, returned to the waking world and uttered terrible cry at the sight of her companion. She clung to the limp body, far smaller than she, and sobbed as she stroked his blood-soaked hair. Ignoring the woman, the Nazgul stalked towards the white throne, occupied by a tall figure clothed in similar black robes.

"Zagathor," the Witch-King hissed, "how do you come to claim this throne?"

"Were you not informed?" The Nazgul of Numenor settled into the seat with a contemptible smile across his invisible face, "Sauron promised me my birthright if the city were captured. Minas Tirith, constructed by my father as a gift to his first-born, has come under the rein of its rightful lord."

Ignoring the insult to his pride, the Witch-King casually placed his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I know thine claim, Son of the Sword, but never forget who won this battle, lest ye lose thine city to him."

"Ever the poet, Arvedul, are you not?" Zagathor felt a poisonous glee in his soul as he felt his fellow's wrath at the mention of his name, "To answer your question, the Master has returned to Barad-Dur with his prize. He has called for a meeting of the Dark Council, but it is not set to commence for another fortnight. I doubt he would appreciate an unexpected visit."

"Then he will suffer my presence long enough for his prize to be delivered to him." Arvedul turned towards the doorway, taking the woman up by the hair. He ignored the sounds of her pain and her desperate attempt to reclaim the halfling's body as he dragged her away.

"Oh, Arvedul," called Zagathor from his seat, "I forgot to mention, the Master already has three men of strong will. He took one, a ranger claiming to be Isildur's heir. Our brothers found the others, the last surviving general of Rohan and the youngest son of our crazed friend, Denethor. I doubt this sniveling woman will replace any of those mighty men for the Master's plan."

"I would not make such a hasty conclusion if I were in thine place. Her will is that of steel and her strength is beyond expectation. I think that she will more than suffice."

The Witch-King of Angmar strode into the courtyard. He tossed the woman that had nearly succeeded in slaying him on to the ground. With a dramatic sweep of his robes, he mounted the fell beast that awaited him. He whipped its reigns and commanded it to take up the woman in its dark talons.

She will serve him well, very well indeed

* * *

Rivendell, 2 days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Elrond, elven master of Rivendell, fell with exhaustion into his favorite chair, wiping his still red eyes with a shining linen. His heart, already burdened with the guilt of sending a doomed fellowship on a doomed quest, broke under the weight of the news he had just imparted. Bilbo Baggins, his friend and uncle of Frodo, had come to him, asking why all Rivendell, home of joyful and wise elves, had gone dark with gloom. Elrond suspected that the old Hobbit already had the entire situation figured out but he had come to his confidant in the vain hope that he might be wrong. Elrond had seen much sorrow in his long life, but Bilbo's sobs seemed to be the culmination off all his failings. And so, Elrond had wept with his friend.

Bilbo eventually found some comfort in a book and was joined by the librarian of the house. Needing solitude, Elrond found himself in his private study, far removed from the world beyond. He forced his sorrow to retreat, finding himself alone with his hopeless thoughts. His mind was consumed by futile plans of retreat and resistance. He had called for a meeting of the remaining lords of the free people, but, before he could approach them, he needed some sort of hope, some plan to save the last good of the world, but none came to him. Was he not the master of plans? Or was it Gandalf who had truly been the puppet master all these years? He glanced down at the ring upon his desk. It's shining sapphire stared into his soul, calling for him to bear it once more, just once more. No.

"I feel the trouble in your heart." The strong yet radiant voice startled Elrond. Standing in the passage to his chamber was Galadriel, queen of Lothlorian and highest of her people. Though her unmatched beauty was unchanged, there was a piece of her glory missing. She still shone with the light of the Eldar, but weariness had come upon her.

"Lady Galadriel," stammered Elrond as he tried to compose himself, "I did not expect you to arrive for another week."

"You know that I have my ways." A sad smile crossed her lips, "I felt the need to come as soon as I could. A matter of some urgency has arisen."

"Come," Elrond said as he gathered his hastily collected his notes. "Let us discuss this in the library with Glorfindel and the rest."

Before he could leave, however, he found himself in Galadriel's embrace.

"Mithrandir is dead."

At the sound of this news, Elrond felt his stomach drop. No word on the survivors of Minas Tirith had reached Rivendell, but the thought that Gandalf could have been amongst the dead had not crossed his darkest dreams. Once more on the cusp of tears, Elrond returned the embrace, drawing all of his strength to ask if his last hope remained.

"What of my sons?"

"Elledain is dead, and I know not of Elrohir."

Elrond nodded, fearing that more words would only lead to more heartbreak. They remained embraced, connected by the bonds of sorrow and loss. Neither had seen the other show such emotion before, as both usually remained stoic even the harshest of times. This moment, however, they joined at the darkest of hours, and wept.

* * *

Erebor, Five days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Thorin III, now King under the Mountain, collapsed against an ornate pillar in the Hall of War. Two nights prior, his father, King Dain Ironfoot, had fallen in battle. He was an old dwarf by that time, but he deserved a more valiant death than that which was granted to him. It had been six days sense the forces of men and dwarves had been pushed from the city of Dale and they and the people of the city had fled into the halls of Erebor. There they had held the gate for six days and six nights, and there the two kings had fallen on the second. Brand II of Dale had been slain by an Easterling arrow, shot from afar, and Dain had gone to protect his body from their adversaries. There, he too fell, cut down by many strokes. Their bodies were taken by the Easterlings, cunning Khagnates of Rhun, who burned the kings as sacrifices to Sauron. Their golden armor shone that night like a thousand embers around the great pyre. Thorin recalled the sickly-sweet aroma of the spices and oils they had poured over the stacks of wood so as to please the senses of their master and God. The next night, news reached the Mountain that Sauron had defeated the armies of Gondor and Rohan. The sounds of feasting and celebration filled the streets of Dale, now occupied by the Easterlings, yet nothing could be heard from Erebor. That night, hope had died.

Bard II, son of Brand, approached Thorin, who had nearly fallen asleep upon the pillar.

"They have sent an envoy," his friend said, optimism tinging his weary voice, "He wishes to meet with us and discuss our term of surrender."

"What surrender?" Snapped Thorin, "There will be no surrender, not for Durin's Folk."

"Thorin, we can only stay here for so long. We will run out of food in two weeks' time if we stay. We will eventually run out of arrows and archers to protect the gate if we stay. This battle is lost."

"We will not lose this Mountain again."

"You might still be able to stay. Why would Sauron send a negotiator if he wanted us dead? I believe that he wants the industry of the dwarves and the trade of Dale to continue. He will demand a tariff, but you may still keep the Mountain."

Thorin mulled over the proposal. "Fine. I'll speak with this filth and bargain for our lives like a beggar."

"I doubt an attitude like that will win you any sympathies with this man."

The two were joined by a host of guards, who led them to the gate. Its shining green marble face cast a soft glow over the foreground, illuminating the host of a thousand warriors with a light that made them resemble an army of mantises. At their head were two men on horseback. One was clad in a scarlet robe and wore a regal suit of golden armor. The other wore a black tunic and a helm of dark steel yet of the Easterling design.

"Lords of Erebor and Dale," shouted the man in scarlet, "come forth so that we may come to terms!"

"Who are ya' to treat with us?" returned Thorin, "By what authority do you and this dark fellow answer to?"

"For me, no authority but my own. My companion answers to the Lord of Mordor. I am Khan Hith-Shagi of Rhudel, Lord of the Golden Horde and Sheykh of the Mount. This is Khamul, Last Khan of the Old Dynasty and Emissary of the Eye of Heaven. Your fathers and I had met in peace many times, and I wish to continue that relationship with their sons."

"Ya' should have thought of that before ya' killed them!"

"Their deaths were unfortunate and unintended. I offered them a chance at a peaceful resolution before any life was taken, but they would not accept. Do you see war in Dorwinnion? Their lord submitted to our terms and he still sits in his palace. Now, you have the same chance that your fathers' had to save your people and keep your lands. Will you not treat with us?"

Bard looked to Thorin who was fuming with rage at the passivity of the Easterling. Thorin turned to Bard, who wore a desperate countenance. The man's expression conveyed his intention clear as day. Bard would not let his people die, even if it cost their freedom. Thorin, begrudgingly, relented to his friend's desire.

"We will talk."


	3. Chapter 3: The Councils of Fate

Rivendell, 7 days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Elrond took attendance of the assembled council of the Free People. Less than half of those he had called upon sat around the place of meeting, the same hall where council had been taken to discuss the fate of the One Ring so many months ago. Elven emissaries from Lindon on the coast and Dwarves of the Blue Mountains sat across the circle from each other, grumbling amongst themselves angrily. Between them were Albador, the newly elected chief of the Dunedain, and Glorfindel, an elven lord of great renown, chatting glumly amongst themselves. To his side sat Galadriel, and to her side was an empty seat where her husband, Celeborn, was meant to be. Their realm of Lothlorien had been surrounded by forces from Dol Guldor and Moria. The Orc host had not entered the Golden Wood but no one had been allowed to leave the bounds of the trees. The same fate had befallen Thranduil, king of the Woodland Realm. His forest kingdom was under siege from Dol Guldor and the Wainriders of the East. Erebor and Dale had been conquered by the Khaganate. Rohan was in such chaos that Elrond did not even know who to contact. The last vestiges of freedom in Middle Earth were in shambles.

"My friends," he said, trying to dreg up any gravitas he could manage, "You have been summoned here to answer the doom of Mordor. The One Ring has been reclaimed by the Dark Lord Sauron. His forces grow ever stronger while our own begin to wither. Gandalf the White is dead. The banner of the Eye flies above Minas Tirith. The Heir of Isildur is gone. The Dark Lord is bending all his will against we who are here today and our allies who could not escape his blockades. Before any of us may take action, we must come together to answer one question: Are we to abandon this world and leave Sauron to his devices with those we leave behind, or are we to fight against an insurmountable opponent and perish with honor?"

There was an impenetrable silence amongst those present. The question was one that no one wished to address, for of both answers were accursed. After many agonizing seconds, Albador, a grizzled man with a grey beard and sunken eyes, stood.

"What choice do we have? The West will not take us. The realms of Men and Dwarves are at Sauron's mercy. But we Dunedain will die resting him."

"We stand with ya', Ranger" the emissary of the Blue Mountains chimed in, "We've 'eard that our kin in Erebor and the Iron Hills have been enslaved by the Easterlings, along with the Dalish and the like. We will do whatever it takes to keep our people free, and save our brothers under the Mountain if we can."

"So, the Mortal races will oppose the Enemy," Elrond said as a sad smile crossed his lips, "What say the Noldar? Will our kin in the Grey Havens stand? What of the Galadhrim?"

"We may not speak," Galadriel said, "until we know the intent of the Elves of Rivendell. You now stand as the greatest general of our time. You alone amongst us have stood against Sauron at his mightiest. What says the general of the Elven host?"

Elrond was momentarily speechless. While Galadriel was his close friend, he had always believed her the stronger and wiser between them, and he did not doubt that now, yet he had never expected for her to show such admiration for his own wisdom and martial skill. "I…We will join the Dunedain and the Dwarves against Sauron."

"Then the Galadhrim will fight alongside you."

"And so will I," said Glorfindel, "though I fear that this war will bring ruin to the last of our people. I saw the fall of Gondolin, so many years ago, and though it may seem that I might see another great fall of elvendom, I will fight to my dying breath to keep that fate from coming to be."

"Forgive us my friends," said Galdor of the Havens, "but we cannot help you. Cirdain plans on sailing to Valanor as soon as he might. Corsairs have been reported sailing north and time is short for us. Our people need not die fighting. And if we were to make it to the White Shores, we could alert the Valar as to our plight and possibly send aid then. I am sorry, but we will not die needlessly."

"I understand," said Elrond, "Do what you need to do for your people. Now, for those that will stand, a plan of action must be made. I believe that, until reinforcements from Mirkwood could pass through the Misty Mountains, the best we could manage is a strong defensive line. If we were to hold the Gap of Rohan, the north would be safe for a time and plans could be made for the breaking of the blockade around Lothlorien. I…"

Suddenly, the bellowing of trumpets filled the air. Elrond stood, fearing the worst.

"My lord, my lord!" cried a watchman, "a rider comes forth!"

"Is he friend or foe?"

"Foe my lord. A messenger from Sauron himself. He stands beyond the gate, calling for you and the lady Galadriel."

Already fearing that Sauron might be moving against them, Elrond stood, beckoning for Galadriel to follow him. They strode out from the hall of meeting and through the winding paths of the Last Homely House. The air there, no matter the season, was always the perfect mixture of soft warmth and cool mist, yet the air now had a sickly sharpness too it, as if the heat and the chill were at strife. They descended the flight of stone stairs and into the first courtyard. From the courtyard extended a long bridge, overshadowed by the guardhouse and, the end of the bridge, stood a man, clad in black and crowned in dark iron, astride a similarly attired horse. His mouth seemed to twitch as if dark words danced behind his cracked lips.

"Why does a servant of the Enemy come so boldly to the gates of Rivendell?" Shouted Elrond from the courtyard. "What madness would drive Sauron to send you here?"

"Lord Elrond," said the messenger with a cold, oily voice, "I see that you are as gracious a host as the tales say. Will you not come closer to me so that I may impart my Lord's gift to you?"

"The same gifts that brought Ereigon to ruin?"

"The exact opposite, my friend. Come, let us talk."

Elrond, completely unswayed by the messenger's attempts to lure him, was shocked when Galadriel began to cross the bridge with a confidant stride.

"What words will the Second Dark Lord impart on us?" She said with confidence, "I do not expect them to be of any wisdom, so I hope they will make me laugh."

The messenger's expression changed from an unwelcoming smile to a grimace, clearly angered by the insult to his master.

"I would not speak so rudely, Lady of Golden Wood. My Master is willing to offer you a fighting chance in this war of ours, and I doubt He would be so gracious if He knew that you spoke so low of Him."

"What do you mean?"

"My Master wishes to grant you and all the people to the north of Rohan and west of the Misty Mountains one year of peace. He will not send forces beyond the Fords of the Isen and will make sure that no orc nor man under His Will passes the bounds of Mirkwood or Lothlorian."

"And at what price would this unguaranteed peace come? The lives of our children? All the secrets of the White Council?"

"No, nothing so valuable. He simply wishes for you to impart to me the remaining two Elven rings."

"What?" burst Elrond, aghast, "We might as well slit our throats here and now!"

"Tell me, Lord of Rivendell, what do you lose? You cannot use them against my Lord nor can you destroy them. And what does my Master gain? He simply wants the entire collection. I think you must understand, my Master is quite fond of trinkets and pretty things. He already has one of the three, and now He desires the rest."

"And yet we still have no assurance that we will not be betrayed. Why would Sauron waste a year for these 'trinkets' as you call them?"

"Despite our victories in Gndor, the forces of Mordor have suffered greatly. Of the one hundred thousand orcs that marched from Minas Morgul to Minas Tirith, only ten thousand remain, far too few to launch an assault upon your realms. Even the full might of Harad and Rhun could not stand against you without the support of Mordor. My Master is not wasting a year; He simply has no reason to fight you until His armies are restored. However, if you were to refuse, He could still cause great damage to your realms, and Mirkwood and Lothlorien would fall."

Elrond could not reply. If he and Galadriel did not give the rings over, Sauron's forces would shatter them before any defenses could be set up and, thus, lose all hope. And yet, if they were to surrender them, there was no guarantee that Sauron would honor his truce and he had no clue what dark devices the rings might be used for. _Surrender them._ As clear as day, he heard Galadriel's strong voice in his mind. _I sense no lie in him. His will is that of his master's, and he is honest that we will have a year_. A sharp tinge of anger stabbed at his heart. He hated when others could know what he could not, such as the minds of foes. He needed to hear the sincerity with his own ears before he could choose either way. _Elrond, trust me. He is telling the truth_. With a resigned sigh, Elrond bowed his weary head. He beckoned for his protégé, Lindir, to come forth.

"There is a ring upon my desk, a band of gold embedded with a sapphire. Bring it to me."

"A wise decision, Lord of Rivendell. My Master will be most pleased with your decision."

Elrond, hoping beyond hope that the wisdom of Galadriel had not failed, stared dead-eyed into the hidden face of the messenger.

"Tell your damned master that, if he betrays our trust, the wrath of a father of a lost son will fall upon him with the strength of the lance of Gil-Galad one-hundredfold. Tell him that Elrond will have his vengeance."

The moment the two rings had been imparted to the messenger, he had fled with great haste out of the valley of Imladres and away south. Despite the council of his captains, Elrond did not send scouts to keep tabs upon his movements. He had seen no point, for nothing short of a miracle would preserve peace if those rings were taken back by the elves. Once again desiring solitude, he had found himself in the high meeting place of the White Council. The moonlight-washed pavilion had seen many meetings of the wise to discuss the dark goings on in the world. He looked down upon the stone table where so many lost friends once sat and laughed. In his mind's eye, he could see Gandalf, clad in raggedy grey robes, smiling to himself about some matter of the Shire that none but himself cared about. He saw Radagast the Brown absentmindedly whispering to a squirrel that had crawled from somewhere beneath his dirt-stained coat. He saw Glorfindel and Cirdain laughing about old memories from an age long past. And he saw Saruman the White, when he could still be counted as a friend, desperately trying to bring those assembled into order and then resigning himself to a glass of wine. Elrond could not remember what that meeting had been called to address, but he could still recall every joke and kind word that had been spoken that day amongst them. He coughed up a bitter laugh, realizing how few of the council would remain. Gandalf was dead. Rumor claimed that Radagast had been cut down by the Nazgul of Dol Guldor while trying to protect the creatures of the forest. Saruman had fallen to the lure of the Ring, and had betrayed the council and attempted to destroy the kingdom of Rohan in a mad grab for power. He had been defeated, but his whereabouts were unknown, meaning that he was likely dead. Cirdain was leaving for the White Shores, never to return to Middle Earth. All that would remain were Glorfindel, Galadriel, and himself. Only three to stand against the strength of Sauron. All was doomed.

"It is fine to grieve, my friend."

Elrond turned to see Galadriel, clad in a stunning white dress that shimmered silver in the moonlight.

"There is no time to grieve yet," Elrond replied, fighting against the lump in his throat, "Many more will die before the end."

"Your daughter knows that, and yet she still finds it in her heart to grieve for one man."

"Arwen is blinded by love. She gave her heart to a man who was doomed to die."

"And yet it was real. Was her love for him too far removed from our love of the world? Whether it be by the hand of Sauron or by the decay of time, this world will end while we carry on. It will die, yet we still fight for it and we weep for its hurt, no matter how fleeting."

Elrond turned away, looking up to the brilliant moon.

"I only wish to see the people of this world free and happy. Sauron desires neither, and it is the duty of the wise to keep him at bay."

A long moment of silence passed as Elrond became absorbed in the stars hanging in the black sky.

"If I were to ask you for something, would you give it to me?"

"Of course, my lady."

"Anything?"

"Anything."

"Sleep with me."

* * *

Barad-Dur, Mordor: Fourteen days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

In the vast, ashen plains of Gorgoroth, beyond the fiery mountain of Orodruin, stood the dark tower of Barad-Dur. It rose into the red sky like a terrible spear. Within its walls were pits where Orcs bred and dark iron was forged into cruel blades and twisted contraptions. High towers rouse out of the gorge of molten stone, the tallest of which was the citadel of Sauron himself. Ornate designs, incurring feeling of pain, scaled the long distance of the tower. High within the tower rested a large circular chamber. Stone marble seats surrounded an ornate stand, holding a large black sphere. The crimson cushioned seats were filled with allies and commanders of Mordor, and at their head was the throne of Sauron himself.

"Assaulting Rivendell before a defensive line can be formed across the Gap of Rohan must be our next move." The Witch-King of Angmar clenched his fist in frustration as those surrounding him seemed to ignore his words. He stared with fury at the lesser men who had headed the Dark Lord's call for council. Only three of his Nazgul brethren had been able to make the trip to Mordor. Khamul and the other Easterling Nazgul were caught up in the Iron Hills campaign, and the Brothers of Harad were wrapping up the Rohan campaign. The other delegates that had arrived were disappointing to say the least. The Khan of Rhun, Hith-Shagi had arrived, along with two skeletal members of the religious council. While he was a competent general, he clearly was suited more for the world of books than the world of blades. The glorified cultists that made up the council seemed to be under the influence of a rather strong incense. The disgustingly bloated Shah of Harad had somehow managed to climb the long flight of stairs leading to the council room along with the brutish high-commander of the Southern legions. The Shah was disgusting, privy to foul tastes and pleasures, and he clearly held a certain degree of contempt for both Sauron and the Nazgul, serving them solely out of obligation. The diminutive King of Umbar sat next him, and beside him were the Horde-master of the Khands and the King of the Varags. Gothmog, orc general of the Gorgoroth army, stood silently in the shadows. His deformed visage was covered by the dark, clearly wishing to avoid the eyes of his superiors after the disastrous failure of the first stage of the Battle of Minas Tirith.

"Will none of you fools hear me out? Elrond of Rivendell called a meeting to organize a defense of the North and we can only assume that they plan to prevent any crossing of the Isen. If this blockade is formed, our siege of Lothloian could be broken, uniting the greatest threats to the sanctity of our newly acquired territories."

"What's the need?" moaned the Shah.

"Excuse me?" hissed Arvedul.

"We've done that's been asked of us. The Gondorian devils are crushed under the might of our armies. Let us revel in our spoils. I, for one, have a caravan of slaves headed toward Karna, amongst which are many girls to be escorted directly to my palace."

"Do you believe that we are done with you? The legions of Mordor are weakened. We cannot continue the campaign without the full backing of the men of Harad."

The two priests of Rhun stood with startling speed.

"The forest devils but be banished from this world!" they chanted in unison.

"Excuse them," said the Khan, head in hand, "It is a common belief amongst our people that the Elves are demons, servants of the goddess of death. I do however, agree with your sentiment, Nazgul. If the elves of the west were to unite with those in Mirkwood, they could pose a genuine threat to my own people's hold on Rhovanion."

"But what does this campaign have to do with the people of Harad," groveled the Shah, "or Umbar for that matter, or the Varags, or the Khands? We need not do anything more, is that not right, Hantur?" His general grunted in agreement.

"My Lord," Arvedul pleaded to his hitherto silent master, "Will you say nothing to quench this inferno of idiocy?"

Sauron, staring intently at the faintly radiant band across his finger, chuckled softly. His sharp laughter rose into a cruel chortle. The sound of his laughter was like the crackling of embers and silenced the words and minds of those who heard him.

"We need not worry about Elrond and his pitiful allies." Sauron lifted himself from his dark throne. He stood like a god above those that stared at the majesty of their dark lord. "I have already destroyed the north. I have sown the seeds of the fall of Rivendell without a single blade or a single spy. Only the windows of my will, so well and so foolishly guarded by the elven lords, were my tools. Conduits for the dark desires I wish for them to wish for. What virtue destroys a home faster than fire? What action has started more wars than any other? What secret can never be kept for too long? Promiscuity. Why should we send legions of Mordor to destroy Rivendell, when the king of Lothlorien will send his own army to do so for us? Why else would I have offered Elrond a year of peace? None of you will have to step across the Isen, will you? I have already won."

With a swing of his arm, the smooth stone behind his throne tore apart, revealing a gold-trimmed staircase spiraling up into the unknown chambers of Barad-Dur.

"My Lord, will you hear a lowly request?"

Sauron stopped with a sudden jerk. Dead silence filled the air as the dark lord turned, looking down upon the man who dared speak to him. Hith-Shagi stood before him, his crimson robes standing sharp against the billowing black of the Dark Lord

"Who are you to speak to me," he growled, "mortal? What madness would drive a being such as thee to speak to me with such confidence?"

"Not madness, your majesty, but curiosity. This fortress is a masterpiece of wisdom and genius. I would be a most blessed man to read but a single tome from your library. My realm has just expanded thrice-fold, and most of my…excuse me…our subjects are unwilling victims of conquest. If I were permitted but one week to peruse your library, I might devise new methods of enforcing our dominance."

Sauron stared down at him, silent and cold. After an agonizingly long moment, a low laugh issued from beneath the dark lord's helm.

"You are quite bold for a creature such as you, and quite charming. You are free to explore my citadel as you wish. Now, leave me be. I have matters of my own to attend to."

Once Sauron was through the stone passage, it closed behind him, leaving the assembled council to themselves. Ignoring the inquisitive stares, Witch-King rose angrily and began to stride out of the chamber.

"Where do you think you're going?" said the Shah

"To plan for war. I may not be able to bring ruin to the North, but there are quite enough enemies south of the Isen to entertain me for now. The Ents still hold Isenguard. Men of Gondor and Rohan still resist. And I may just find myself an ill-contented bastard to dethrone." The Shah shivered as the Witch King's empty eyes penetrated his soul, "This war is just beginning, and it is I that will end it."


	4. Chapter 4: The Broken and The Breaking

Barad-Dur, Mordor: Seventeen days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Hith-Shagi, Emperor of the mighty Rhunic nation and Lord of the Holy Mount of Art-Kulm, had found himself in quite a predicament. He had lost a page of an ancient text beneath a towering mountain of notes. The library of Barad-Dur held ten-thousand years' worth of knowledge and theory, and the Khan could do little against his impulsion to absorb it all. Tomes recovered from the first age fortresses of Uttumno and Angband, stolen histories from Eregion and Numenor, and accounts of every battle across the long history of Middle-Earth could be found in the black shelves that circled around a shining sculpture of the world of Arda. Hith had found that his famed knowledge, surpassing all his superstitious people, had been limited to the basic histories and religious legends of his own xenophobic ancestors. An entire world had opened to him, revealing the faults and the strengths of every race and every nation. The elves were not demons or malicious spirits, but a deeply flawed, tormented people trying to hide their nature under a vale of civil purity. The people of Gondor were not an indestructible legion of barbarians, they were a cold, dying nation teetering on the edge of the abyss. The dwarves of the north were not filthy maggots that stole and ruined, they were masters of art and production that would always be hampered by their greedy nature.

Hith learned how to tear all his enemies to the ground, and yet, he was far more interested in the sketches and plans for machines and mechanisms that were scattered about the histories. He found hand-drawn designs for automated mining devices, self-fueling furnaces, and beast-less chariots. Some seemed to be ancient, from the elven first age he assumed, and described a contraption that spewed fiery stones that could tear down the thickest of walls. Others were made within the past months and contained plans for massive industrial complexes to be manned by the slaves of conquest. By the author's estimate, one factory of his design could process more materials in a day than a current Mordor facility could produce in a month. Other notes were dedicated to the arts, detailing masterful concepts for statues and monuments of the war and restructurings of the fortresses and palaces of Middle-Earth. Hith was mesmerized by the delicate pen strokes of the pieces, and barely noted when heavy footfalls echoed through the chamber. Only once the figure was within his direct field of vision did Hith look up from his notes. Before him was Sauron himself, clad in heavy black robes without his typical suit of armor, looking through the shelves.

"My lord," Hith gasped, dropping several pieces of paper as he fell to his knees.

"There is no need to grovel." Sauron said apathetically through his twisted mask, "I am here for a tome that I seem to have misplaced."

"You and I share a problem, your majesty."

Sauron continued to run his gloved fingers over the books.

"Have you found The History of the Elvish People vol. 12 in your studies?"

"The book that describes the Fall of Gondolin?"

Saruon nodded.

"I skimmed through it yesterday. I believe it was indexed between the Lay of Gondolin and Victories of the First Age in the third shelf down."

Sauron strode over to the shelf and quickly found the book. Taking it up, he began to leave the chamber.

"May I ask why you desire it?"

Sauron looked back over his broad shoulder. "You seem to have a habit of interrupting my departures. I have two reasons. Elven strategy has not changed much since those days, and I am curious as to how the those we now move against will respond compared to their fore-bearers. There is also a beautifully described moment of the battle in this tome that I wish to put to canvas."

"You paint?" Hith said, slightly amused by the idea that this being who took the mantle of a god would partake in the arts in such a way.

"Of course, why wouldn't I? In fact, some of my pieces have ended up across the world. I believe that one might even hang in Rivendell. Fools. I hope to reclaim it before all is over."

"I would like to thank you again, my lord, for giving me access to these records. They have proved enlightening."

"I hope not too enlightening," the dark lord's voice took a sudden turn towards hostility, "Do not forget your place, Shagi."

"I will not, my master. I do have one question regarding a weapon used in the siege of Gondolin by the armies of Angband. My own people have some devises to manipulate fire to our advantage, yet this weapon seemed to use fire to propel a piece of stone or metal with great force. Is there any information on the details of this…cannon as it is called?"

"No." Sauron snapped, "You are forbidden from pursuing any more information regarding this device or any other firearm of the sort. Do you understand?"

Hith nodded, surprised by the dark lord's reaction. Without another word, Sauron exited the library, vanishing into the deeper shadows of Barad-Dur. His curiosity stoked by this sudden restriction, Hith began to discreetly copy every word and drawing related to the cannon. _Maybe there is something he fears. Maybe I have found the key to our freedom from this false god._

* * *

Rivendell, Eighteen days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Elrond sat alone, ignoring the morning light as he wrote letters of command to the various elf and Dunedain commanders. He tried to fill his mind with battle plans and defensive strategies, but feelings of guilt and self-hatred still seeped into his thoughts. Albador needed to set up ranger encampments close to Isenguard. How could he have let it happen? Glorfindel needed to choose those that would accompany him through the Misty Mountains. Why was it so easy for them to be unfaithful? He needed to send emissaries to Bree, Dunland, and the other mannish settlements to recruit troops and find suppliers. Could he trust Galadriel anymore? He dropped his quill, spilling ink over his half-finished letter, and clutched his head in his hands. Everything had fallen apart. Every friend was leaving or gone. He felt a darkness already looming over the hearts and minds of every elf, man, and dwarf. It was as if the spirit of Sauron already held sway over the entire world, and it was only a matter of time before he held it through martial power as well. Elrond found no solace in solitude any more, and nothing but his occasional talks with Bilbo brought him any semblance of peace. His old friend, despite his own sorrows, still kept the contented spirit of the Shire in his aging heart. If only he had not realized the fate of his little hamlet of a homeland once all was said and done. The sound of an approaching presence brought Elrond out of his contemplation. He turned as Lindir entered his study, a gloomy expression across his fair face.

"Lindir," Elrond said, trying to summon a leaders confidence in his voice, "Have you done as I asked?"

"Yes m'lord," he replied absentmindedly, obviously preoccupied with some other matter, "Lady Arwen has been sent with the Elves of the Grey Havens."

"And is Glorfindel readying his company for their mission?"

"Yes, they have already left."

"Good," Elrond felt two slight weights lift from his shoulders, "It is of the most importance that they reach Lothlorian. Seeing as the Gap of Rohan is most likely being watched for any breach of our agreement, they must find a passage through the mountains."

"My Lord," Lindir sighed, clearly dreading having to impart the news that he carried, "It's Master Baggins. He…passed away last night"

The facade of confidence that Elrond held up fell away instantly.

"What…" His shock drifted away into a small, weary voice, "How did he die?"

"Peacefully, in his sleep."

"Good." Elrond turned away, staring down at his ruined letter. "Arrange for a ceremony. Something simple, poetry and songs, just as he would have liked."

Lindir nodded and walked away to do as he was ordered. Elrond, having already shed every tear within him, simply stared down at his desk. He felt the dull pain of regret as he realized that he had not talked to Bilbo on the day before his death. Their last conversation was a debate on how to describe the color of Lissuin flowers. Bilbo claimed that they were a bright, radiant pink while Elrond argued that they were closer to a heavy lavender. While the argument was a completely friendly distraction, it had remained unresolved and would remain so. That lack of closure was what stabbed at his heart the hardest. Elrond stared blankly at his black-stained paper. Lissuin flowers…his last words with his only confidant were about Lissuin flowers. Elrond's eyes began to glisten. Bilbo would never finish whatever poem had to do with Lissuin. He felt his throat began to tighten. Bilbo would never finish his book. His face fell into his arms as he began to sob. _All shall fade…_

* * *

Ost-in-Edhil, Eregion, Eighteen days after the Reclamation of the One Ring.

Glorfindel found himself standing alone atop one of the ruined towers of the old capital city of Eregion. Ost-in-Edhil, despite its sacking in the second age, had become the center of the new Alliance of the North. He looked down at the fields of tents and makeshift living spaces scattered around the ruins. Rangers clad in dark green cloaks practiced with their long bows along the borders of the encampment, while elven commanders shouted orders at their soldiers who moved in perfect unison as they followed them. The elven forces of Lindon and Rivendell could be easily distinguished by their armor. The elves of the Grey Havens who had headed the call of war were clad in green-gold armor overlaying deep blue tunics. They wielded lances and carried short blades upon their belts. The garrison of Rivendell wore suits of shining bronze armor over their deep red cloaks and carried long spears or curved swords. A small battalion of Dwarves had also arrived from the Blue Mountains. Their heavy suits of steel gleamed with a slight blue tint, and they were all armed with battle-axes and shields. It was a rather impressive sight to see these people come together, even if it was under such terrible circumstances.

Glorfindel felt the rush of cold wind blow over him, causing his golden hair and white cape to billow like a radiant flag. He called up memories of the city in its era of prosperity, before Annatar, the lord of gifts, had brought ruin to this place. It was here that all but one of the Rings of Power were forged by the hands of the most skilled elves in all the world, and the greatest among them was their king, Celebrimbor. He had forged the Three Elven Rings in secret, and hid them so well that it took Sauron thousands of years to find them. He payed quite dearly for that betrayal. His city-state was torn to the ground, he and his kin were taken to Mordor in chains, and his mutilated corpse was atop a pike leading the armies of Sauron several months later. Those that had returned from the Halls of Mandos since had claimed that his soul had never reached the deathless realm, meaning that it was lost amongst the shadowy world of the wraiths. Glorfindel pitied the pour king, despite the evils he must have imparted to be trapped in that world, for that unnatural state of being was a fate of great torment.

"Are you ready to depart?"

The soft yet commanding voice drew Glorfindel from his reminiscence. He turned to confront an elven maiden, clad in a black satin cloak that obscured her face.

"Yes, I am. But what of the others?"

"The Southron is waiting beyond the camp, and the Ranger is currently having his blade sharpened, but is prepared to leave when it is finished."

"Good, I will grab my things and we will be off."

"Are you sure that we can trust them? I do not wish to have my presence known to anyone but this company."

"I trust the Ranger with my life, and I trust the Southron with my gold. He is being payed handsomely for his services and he is one of the most renowned mercenaries in the world. We were quite fortunate that he was north of the Isen before the blockade was formed, otherwise he might have been swayed by Sauron's coin rather than our own."

"He has earned my complete trust already," the woman said sarcastically and with more than a hint of spite.

"I hope so, because he might be our saving grace if we are to make the trek to Lothlorien in one piece."

He and the maiden descended the tower and made their way toward the east borders of the camp. Passing the dinful smithy, a man clad in the dark tunic and green raiment of the Rangers of the North approached them.

"Gliron," Glorfindel called to the man, "do you have our supplies?"

"Yes, sir" the young man replied with a strong, crisp voice, "They are with the mercenary waiting for us."

"Good. Now, let us be off. We must make the journey to Caradhras within a week and I do not wish to get caught up with well-wishers."

"Neither does the mercenary, Bur-Fateel I believe his name is. He was already prepared to leave at day-break."

"Well, then let us not keep him waiting."

The group managed to leave the camp without hindrance. They ascended a hill to the north-east, where Fateel awaited them. He was clad in a veritable collection of various clothing items and bits of armor. He wore a long, tattered leather coat beneath a light elven chest-plate forged of bronze yet appearing closer to a light-green hue due to its age. He wore a tight helm that covered the majority of his face, and beneath his visor he wore a black mail veil. At his belt was a long, curved blade along with knives, bottles of blasting powder, and bones. He was greeted cordially by the company as they arrived, yet he only replied with a cold nod. Ignoring his apathy, the company took up their burdens and braced themselves for the journey ahead.

"I believe that some words should be spoken before we depart," Glorfindel announced, "We go on a journey that might save us all from the doom of Mordor. Lady Arwen, I believe that you should speak for us."

Throwing back her black hood, Arwen, daughter of Elrond, looked to her comrades. "What can I say that has not been said? We face the end of the free world. Only a small few stand against the power of Sauron, and the greatest of those few have been slain. I do not hide that the man I loved was amongst them, and I do this deed to avenge him. I will do what I can, even if it is but a small blow against the enemy's plans, and I hope you three will do the same."

After a series of approving nods, but little more, the party began their trek to Redhorn the Terrible, and the pass therein.

* * *

Surprise! New chapter only two days after the last one! I hope you all liked it, even if it made you a little sad or mad or glad. Have a nice day, and thank you all so much for the support!


	5. Chapter 5: Evil Deeds and Dark Findings

Edoras, Rohan, twenty-five days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

An old man, weary from a long sad life, sat alone in the shining hall of Medusled. Fastlul, cousin of King Theoden and apparent heir to the throne of Rohan, ignored the sounds of sorrow and torment from outside his hall. In all his many years as Marshal of the Eastfold, he had never seen such acts of depravity weighed upon the victims of defeat. For the past fortnight, in the dead of the darkness, orcs would come from the conquered lands, leaving mounds of the severed heads of the fallen sons of Rohan around the walls of the city. Wives and mothers would scream as they found the pale faces of their husbands and sons staring back at them and they would fall silent ever after but for their sobs. The few of those that had returned from the fields of Gondor claimed that they had nearly achieved victory over the forces of Mordor. Having charged into the orc host with fearless wrath, they had driven their foes away from the city, yet they were reinforced by great beasts of the South. Some knew them as Oliphaunts from their childhood bedtime stories, but others claimed they had heard the name Mumakil shouted by the men of the South. And yet, despite the overwhelming odds, the Rohirrim still gained the advantage. It was then however, that all had changed for them.

A terrible had shriek filled the air, and a beast of terrible presence came from the sky. It took the King Theoden and his steed up in its maw and threw them against the ground. The King was crushed under his horse, and all but a single man stood against the beast and his prey. It was then that a ball of fire had erupted from the heights of the city of Minas Tirith, and all the servants of the enemy seemed to grow stronger and filled with a mad vigor. The Dark Rider then did battle with his adversaries, for the soldier had been joined by one of the small folk, and yet they fell. Leaving them in the clutches of his mount, he tore through the forces of Rohan and the reinforcements from Dol Amroth. He slew Prince Imrahil of the coast and claimed the heads of both the prince and Theoden. That victory was the last any of the survivors had seen, for those that had not fled were soon slain.

All of the riders that had returned were now encamped around the city, waiting for what many perceived to be an inevitable doom. The Isen had already been barred by forces that had spilled from Moria. Secret tunnels that had been bored over many years had opened near Isenguard, and the foul goblins of the mines were now encamped along the river with the few survivors of Saruman's army. They were a force that could not hope to take a city such as Edoras, but had created a blockade that would be impenetrable. It also seemed that, contrary to what he had told the masses, help would not arrive from the north. If the elves or the men of the north would have come to their aid, they would have been there days before. Hope had abandoned Rohan, now, all that remained was doom. Fastul was drawn from his mournful thoughts by the sound of deep horns. _The call to arms._ Standing, he threw open the heavy gold-framed doors of Medusled. The sky, which had been a soft blue just hours earlier, was now a deep, billowing grey. Dark clouds had poured over the land from the east, shrouding the land in shadow. In the distance, he could make out what seemed to be a writhing mass of black insects pouring towards the city. The low moan of sorrow that perpetually ailed the city rose into a mad cry of terror. Some ran to the gates with sword or tool in hand while others fled to their homes. Riders outside the walls spurred their horses into formation. The last rays of sunlight faded, delving the Golden Hall into darkness _So, Mordor has finally come for us._

"To me! To me!" From atop the hill, Fastul could see his son, Halul, rallying those that would fight to him. A bitter smile stretched under the old man's beard. His son was the only joy of his old age. He was a fiery soul with an endless abundance of hope. He had not ridden to Gondor, for he and his company were occupied by a host of surviving Uruk-Hai who had taken up arms against the Woldings. It was one of many battles his son had returned to with the glory of victory on his brow, but now there was nowhere to return to and no victory to be won. His son would die. His people would die. There was no hope. There was only death. Unless he could win a battle of words.

Fastul made his way down through the dirt streets of Edoras, ignoring the cries of the people as he approached the gates. Striding to the front of the long line of men that had formed around the city, he approached Halul, mounted atop a mighty horse, one of the few gifts of worth he had given to his son.

"Father," Halul shouted gladly, "Come, take up a sword and a horse! We may win the day with you by our side!"

"Don't be a fool," he replied, barely concealing his despair, "There is no victory to be had this day. The best fate we can hope for is surrender."

"But.." His son's smile dropped entirely, "Father, have you forgotten the lesions that you taught me in my youth, the stories of heroes who never gave up? Can we not ascend to the glory of Bema the Hunter? Can we not prove victorious against insurmountable odds as Helm Hammerhand and his kin did?"

"Bema the Hunter is a lie for children and the naïve and Helm Hammerhand died in madness and agony. If we held even a bit of his luck, we too would go mad now so that we might not feel the terrible deaths they plan for us."

The sound of an approaching gallop drew the attention of father and son. Far ahead of the dark host rode a horse of Rohan. Atop its back was a figure, held up in an unnatural position. A sick gasp broke out amongst the line as the figure came into view. Astride the horse sat the body of Eomer, sister-son of King Theoden. He was naked and mutilated, his flesh torn and scarred. A wooden beam had been nailed into his back, pinning him to the saddle. His face was frozen in a stage of agony, as if his last moments, or days, had been excruciatingly painful. Several men rushed to take up the body and, as they un-stuck him from his position, three rings fell from his grasp. Fastul took them up and held back a choke as he recognized them. They were the signets of Theoden, Eomer, and Lady Eowyn. The last of the royal line was gone. All hope was gone.

"Rally men!"

Fastul turned in shock as his son raised his sword.

"What are you doing, boy?"

"They have violated our king! They must pay for this insult!"

"No! We may still live if we do not attack them! An envoy will come and I can barter for the lives of our people."

"And give them a life without honor or glory? I say that is no life worth saving. To me men!"

"No, you idiot! I forbade it!"

"For death! For glory!"

Fastul fell to his knees. His old heart, already filled with a lifetime of sorrows, was stabbed once final time as his son kicked his horse into motion. The last vestiges of Rohan's army, too few to even protect the city, now rode away into certain death. Dirt was kicked up around him by hooves, and his ears were deafened by the sounds of a mad charge. All his work had been for nothing. The only thing he still loved and all that he had poured his heart into would now herald the death of every innocent man, woman, and child in the city. It was a mere ten minutes later when the first orcs charged past him. He could not turn to see them as they set fire to the walls and poured into Edoras. He ignored the screams of children and the cries of their mothers. He did not look when the gold of Medusled began to melt as fire engulfed the hall of his forefathers. All was for not, it seemed. Every battle and every drop of blood spilled for the sake of Rohan and her people was meaningless. They would burn in the fires of conquest and be enslaved by the conquerors. They would forget their histories and become nothing but animals to work the fields of their masters. Death would be a mercy. Fastul felt no change in his soul when a cold presence approached him. He did not look up as an iron-gloved hand wrapped around his throat. He was lifted to the eye of a dark armored being, tall and terrible.

"So," he hissed, "You are he that took the place of the fallen king. You seem quite his lesser, for he at least stood against me. Even his sister's daughter was a greater challenge than you and your son. Know this, before you die. Your people will not die swiftly. They will rot away in agony. Your fields will burn and your horses shall be ground into meal. Your time is over. A new age will dawn. The age of the Nazgul. The age of Reformation. The age of the New Order. Make your peace."

The Witch-King of Angmar clenched his fist, slowly crushing his victim's throat. Clawing through the dregs of his despair, Fastul pulled forth the image of his departed wife. Her shimmering blue eyes. Her glowing auburn hair. Her ageless beauty. She was his last thought. And so, the last king of Rohan met his end.

* * *

The Heights of Mount Caradhras, Twenty-Six Days after the Reclamation of the One Ring.

Glorfindel pulled his cloak tight around his shivering frame. Being an elf meant many physical advantages, including a higher tolerance to the cold, however, the chill that had fallen over the Mountains of Moria was deep and stinging. Despite being the middle of spring, a wave of dark clouds and cold air had billowed over the Misty Mountains from the East. Glorfindel could only assume that the foul weather was the work of Sauron. While he had sworn not to send forces of orcs or men over the mountains, he had never made any promises about weather. Glorfindel stared intently at the small fire that he, Arwen, and Gliron huddled around. The mercenary stood silently by the opening in the small crag the company had found themselves in. Fateel had proven to be quite the invaluable asset to them over the past week. Not only was it he that had shown them a faster way to the mountain, cutting nearly two days from their journey, but he had also been the only one amongst them that had the skill to light a fire in the frigged space they inhabited. While he did not worry about the safety of Arwen and Fateel, both seemed to be strong enough to survive the cold, Glorinfdel was beginning to fear for Gliron. The young ranger was a master with the bow, and had saved Glorfindel from a pack of Wargs some years before, but the man was no veteran of his kin and he had never before endured a passing of the Misty Mountains.

"I think we've dwelled here long enough." murmured Fateel, as if to himself.

"What makes you say that?" Arwen had proved to be the only one of the company to maintain a distrust of the man. Glorfindel, while understanding her initial hesitation, found it rather odd that he had not swayed her yet. He had been just helpful enough that it did not seem that he was attempting to gain their trust, which Glorfindel had found made him that much more trustworthy.

"There's foul taste in the air. You make this trip enough times, and you begin to learn how the mountain is. There's another will here and I'd rather it not find us at unawares."

"I agree," said Glorifindel, "The sooner we make the cross, the better. Gliron, put out the fire. Make sure no one stumbles upon it."

Begrudgingly, he and Arwen cleared their campsite while Glorfindel approached Fateel.

"How soon can we make the passage?"

"Two days, no sleep."

"Gliron needs to rest, and I assume that you will need to as well."

"The boy is your problem. I can handle myself. You hired me to get over these mountains as fast as possible and I'm holding up my end of the bargain."

"I understand your hurry, but I think we could manage at least two hours of rest for him. He's only a man."

A sideways glance alerted Glorfindel to his poor use of words,

"I don't mean like that. I only mean that you mortals need rest more than my kind. I fear that he will die of exhaustion if we do not stop at least once."

"Its fine," shouted Gliron from the cave, "I'll be alright."

"You heard the boy," snapped Fateel, "He can make it."

Glorfindel suddenly felt his feelings of appreciation for the man begin to dwindle. Leaving Fateel to plot a course, he returned to the cave to collect his things. Soon the party had returned to the long trek through the winding cliff sides of the mountain. Glorfindel and Arwen were the most comfortable with the snow-covered ledges, stepping lightly over the heavily packed snow. Fateel, while not so light on his feet, had attached foreign devises to his boots. The planks of ridged wood extended from his shoes like claws, keeping the man from sinking too far into the snow with each step. Despite the heavy clouds looming above them, not a single snowflake had fallen for their entire journey. It was not until the sun had begun to set behind them that specks of white began to drift through the air.

"Take these." Fateel said, pulling three bright lights from one of the many pounces attached to his bandolier. As they fell into the hands of the waiting company, they noticed that they were jagged stones, glowing as if there was a golden fire burning within them.

"What are these?" questioned the awestruck Gliron.

"You clearly have never been in one of the Dwarven halls." Fateel replied with something akin to humor in his voice, "These are Emberstones. They're mined in the Blue Mountains in the west and the Red Mountains in the east. The Dwarves usually keep them to themselves, but the Stiffbeards gave me a box of 'em for killing a wyrm that had slithered its way into their treasury."

"We elves have a similar stone," Glorfindel added, "but they never glow this bright. In Gondolin, they were infused into many blades. That is why some of our weapons glow blue when orcs or other foul things are near."

"Once night falls," Fateel interrupted, "There will be no light. We will most likely also be in a snow-storm, so it will be next to impossible to see each other or the path without these stones. Follow my light exactly or you'll end up falling to a very painful and regrettable death. Am I understood?"

All nodded as they formed a line behind Fateel. Gliron stood behind Arwen while Glorfindel took the rear. Fateel took two stones from his pouch, tying one to a chord that hung from his wrist. Soon, night enveloped them all, plunging them into a world of darkness pierced only by the five lights. For hours, they trudged along in the night, nearly falling to their doom multiple times. Fateel maintained a constantly confidant presence, but the three followers would still stumble or be blinded by a burst of snow. Towards midnight as he guessed, Glorfindel noticed that Gliron had begun to stumble. Ehaustion was clearly beginning to set in, however, he knew that nothing he could say would sway Fateel into stopping. Glorfindel counted it a miracle that the ranger did not collapse or slip off the edge, and breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted the sun begin to rise.

Despite the wall of snow fall and the curtain of clouds, the vista still proved dazzling. Streaks of golden light poured over the distant vales of the Anduin. The river sparkled in the light and he thought he might have glimpsed specks of golden Mallorn Trees. He whispered a prayer of thanks to Eru for the gift of elven eyesight.

"Stop!"

He was pulled from his admiration of the landscape by Fateel's sudden command.

"What is it?"

The man did not reply. He stood perfectly still, implying to the others that they should do the same. Glorfindel suddenly felt a slight shift in the ground, quickly realizing the peril that they faced. Fateel began to adjust his weight softly, but ceased when even his slightest movements caused the stone beneath to rumble. It was too late, however, for Glorfindel to notice Gliron's state. The man, despite his attempts to remain still, was wavering with exhaustion. Before any move could be made to stop him, the ranger fell. He hit the ground with a pitiful thump as he hit the snow, yet the sound quickly turned into the laud and violent grinding of stone. Gliron, coming to his senses, attempted to stand, but it was too late. With a thunderous crack, the ledge the company stood on crumbled, sending them down along with the rock and stone.

Glorfindel hit the ground first, having swung himself under Gliron to keep the man from shattering under his own weight on the slope. They hit the snow with a soft thump, rolling desperately to avoid a hail of jagged rocks. They, along with Arwen continued to tumble down the ridge, while Fateel lept from the outcropping that he had latched himself to, diving gracefully towards the others. They fell along the snow-caked slopes, eventually collapsing in the depths of the deep crevasse between the mighty hills. Glorfindel forced his aching body up from his prostrate position, ignoring the dripping warmth than ran down his forehead. A sharp yell filled the air, and he turned to see Gliron clutching his bent and bloody leg. He rushed to the ranger's aid along with Arwen, who had made the descent unscathed.

"His leg is shattered." Arwen said, tearing a long stretch of cloth from her cloak.

"Will he be able to make the journey?"

"I doubt it." She pulled the cloth tight around the wound, causing the man to scream in pain and fall into unconsciousness. "The best I can do for him is a stent. We will need a better healer than I to repair the bone. I…What is Fateel doing?"

Glorfindel turned towards the man, to was staring further into the unseen reaches of the canyon. He began to wander, seemingly aimlessly, away, causing the elf to run after him.

"Where are you going?"

"Do you not feel it?" Fateel raised a gauntleted hand to his forehead, as if he were focusing on a very difficult thought, "There is a presence here. Something old. Something hungry. A thing full of hate yet starving." Glorfindel was suddenly struck with the same awareness. _come to me… let me feast…_ The voice in his mind was cold yet ravenous, like a wolf awaiting the slaughter, yet its summons seemed irresistible, for he, Fateel, and Arwen, who must have felt the same call, followed the voice. Through a long ravine it called them, ending at the foreboding entrance to a dark cave. The split in the sheer cliff-face was as tall as two men but the passage was nearly half filled by the marred and mutilated bodies of many orcs and goblins. Some seemed ancient, barely more than bones. This terrible sight managed to sober the group to a point, giving them such wits as to unsheathe their blades. They made their way into the long passage, carved deep into the mountain by unknown forces. Soon, however, they came upon a place where the cave opened up into a cavern of unseen magnitude.

"Leave this place!" A deep, powerful rasp echoed about the chamber. "Leave lest ye fall or become a vestal of great evil!"

With a quick movement, Fateel unstrapped two bottles of a cloudy liquid from his belt, throwing them into the depths. They erupted into a dark fire that illuminated the cavern, revealing, at its center, a dark armored figure resting upon his knees. His helm was in the shape of a skull and a black cloak covered his broad shoulders. In his clutch was a blade. It shone black like marble and it and was forged in the style of the ancient elves of Gondolin.

"Flee this place lest ye fall to the blade so unwisely remade. Gurthang was its name in the old days. It is ravenous and hungers for blood."

 _No! Test yourselves against me for I am cruel and terrible. Great honor is found in he who strikes my bearer down and victory will always come to him who takes me up._

Moving as if his actions were not of his accord, the blade-bearer stood, pointing the long blade at the intruders.

"Flee before I am made to kill thee!"

As if their actions were not their own, the three companions readied themselves with their own blades. Glorfindel, knowing the name and the hateful reputation of this sword, raised his shining silver blade in challenge.

"I know thee, Gurthang the Traitorous. Battle do thee feast for? Than battle thee shall receive!"

 _Yes! Your blood shall stain me and your bodies will join with the dead at my doorstep! Doom falls upon thee this day!_

Moving as if it were the blade the pulled the man, the dark knight lunged with unnatural swiftness, nearly impaling Glorfindel, who parried the dark sword and swung down at the man's outstretched arm. He twisted, not only dodging the elf's strike but countering the bladework of Fateel. He carried on thusly, striking at the company like a viper while defending himself with unmatched skill. Wherever a blade was to fall upon the Bearer of Gurthang, the blade itself would be to defend its servant. Arwen, bearer of Hadafang, soon found herself the focus of Gurthang's wrath. Her blade danced around its rival, but she was soon out matched by the ancient knowledge of the black blade and fell. Just as the final blow was to be struck, however, the blades of both Glorfindel and Fateel caught Gurthang, and forced its slave to leap back lest he lose his hands. The man and the elf engaged the bearer, who moved like wind between the blades of his enemies. He spun with a wrathful vigor, striking Fateel's helm with the pommel of the blade, causing him to collapse to the floor. It was now just he and Glorfindel. Silver struck black in the wavering firelight, sending sparks flying across the cavern.

 _I want your blood!_

Glorfindel was pushed back by the blade.

 _I want to taste your flesh!_

He fell to his knees under the vicious assault.

 _I want…you!_

As if the blade had chosen a different fate, it swung away in just the wrong angle. Glorfindel parried the strike, driving his own into the throat of the bearer. The bearer's body convulsed, losing his grip on the blade. It crashed against the floor with a resounding clang, and Glorfindel broke his sword has he drove it up into his opponent's skull.

"Beware…" he gargled, and then he went limp. Both body and elf fell to the ground. Glorfindel shook, pain raking his worn body. He had not faced such a capable foe since the elder days and that foe had taken his life. He looked down at the hilt of his blade. It was an old friend to him, but now, it was broken and worthless. He needed a blade. His eye was drawn by the glint of the fallen sword. It was silent now. It did not call to him, nor did it speak words of wrath to his mind. He had slain it. He must have. Reaching out, he took up the dark sword. It was strong, heavy yet balanced. This would be his own now. Gurthang had found a new master. Gurthang was free.


	6. Chapter 6: The Golden Realms

Rhudel, Thirty-One days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

The blistering wind battered against the heavy scarlet veil guarding the face of Hith-Shagi. His caravan had left Mordor two weeks before, carrying many gifts of knowledge and warfare from the Dark Lord. A long line of gold-clad warriors atop pitch black horses rode before Hith's personal guard. They were saddled on the scaled beasts of Rhudor, beasts said to hail from the dark days at the beginning of the world. They walked with the gait of a flightless bird, yet they stood twice the height of a normal man and their maws were filled with many teeth. Hith himself rode atop a beast with a shining burgundy and bronze hue, saddled with elaborate tapestries and armed with golden barding. Behind the Khan and his company was a long line of carts and chariots pulled by beasts and the mighty Kine, holy beasts revered by the old order. This strange parade had crossed the bleak realm of the Dagorland to avoid the fell and perilous plains of Mordor and made the long journey through the Belt of Rhun, the lengthy stretch of arid steppes held by the Khaganate that formed the line between the East and the West. Once they had passed through the Belt, they had come upon the Royal Road that led them directly to the capital of Rhudor.

Removing his shawl, Hith breathed a sigh of relief as the distant glint of the Sea of Rhun caught his eye. As the sun sunk further and further into the west, the grand city of Khazagon crawled ever closer. It was known by many names across the world: Mistrand to the Northmen of Dale and Dorwinnion, Rhunost to the southerners of Gondor, and many others to many other peoples. Yet it was known by all as the center of commerce and wealth in the East, serving as the bridge from the exotic far-easterners to the west. Shipments of gold, craftsmenship, and wine poured from the west while silks, jade, and spices traveled from the eastern roads. While Rhudor's history had often been one of war and hate, its enemies were always treated as friends when they sent traders to Khazagon and no one carrying gold or goods of value was turned away from the high gates.

Deep horns billowed from the heights of the New Wall, signaling the arrival of the Master of the great Rhunic Empire. The simple architecture of the of the outer walls had always bothered Hith. While the wall was by no means an unsightly heap of mud without any appeal, visitors should have been awed by the first sight of his capital, such as those who saw the glorious inner city, but the needs of the quickly expanding city in the second dynasty did not allow for art or beauty. Maybe that would be his first order of business after this war was ended, to tear down these walls and have artists rebuild them instead of brutes. Passing through the archway of the city, he was met by the sight of hundreds of merchants, craftsmen, and the like fallen upon the ground in praise. His caravan made its way through the suddenly cleared streets, occasionally being showered by deep red orchids from the baskets of maidens. Suddenly, Hith felt a hard knock against his ceremonial helm.

"Orc loving bastard!" A dwarf of the Lonely Mountain stood alone amongst the bowing populace, "Rot in hell you…"

The dwarf was silenced as an arrow flew from the bow of one of the Khan's guards. The diminutive trader stumbled, his threat pierced by the shaft, and collapsed in a gurgling heap atop a barrel of counterfeit rune-stones.

"Well placed," Hith smirked to his guard.

"Thank you, Khan," the man returned. Hith had not known this man for long, for he had been promoted to his elite guard after the Battle of Erebor. It was said that he had slain over fifty of Erebor's finest with his longbow from afar. _A fine addition,_ the Khan thought. The caravan continued through the capital, which became more ornate and wealthy the deeper into the city they came. The homes and workshops shone with the faint golden hue of the polished sandstone masonry and their red-tile roofs seemed like embers in the light of the setting sun. Gardens and mansions filled with the wealth of merchants and owners of the various industries surrounded the innermost wall, separating the old city from the new.

Hith felt a wave of relief as he passed through the shining golden gates, leaving behind the crowds of false adoration and cramped urban buildings and entering the wide pavilion that led to the royal towers. The inner city was all that remained of the first dynasty with its symmetrical architecture and tall, box like buildings. Every space across every flat wall was adorned with polished red tiling overlaid with art wrought from gold. The long, most likely mythic histories of the Easterlings were etched across the city. The ancestors of the Rhunic people were said to have once served the great god Salmulilum, but were forced to flee from his lands in the West when the False Gods of the Westerlings tore apart the world to slay the Great One. To save his people, he fled into the stars and created a great red star that his people followed into the east. They eventually came to the lands where the star had led them, Rhudel as it became known, but many wanted to keep on to escape the wrath of the Devil Gods. These people came upon the Holy Mount. Here, many were swayed by false gods into the worship of lesser spirits, and they warred over the mountain. The Kaganate, the father race of the Rhudel and Balcoth, proved victorious and forced the blasphemers into exile.

Hith left his mount and entourage in the courtyard, ordering the gifts brought from Barad-Dur to be delivered to his personal library. He took in the crisp air that poured out from the harbor, and strode alone to the palaces. The smooth lanes led him alongside waterways occupied by lazy, shining fish. Along the shores of these artificial streams, the children of the high families sat and chatted happily amongst themselves while their older siblings swam in the open pools. The older residents strode along the paths, many reading over charts of shipping prices and import registries. Hith eventually came upon the Twin Halls of Rhudor, guarded by two tall statues of men. One was clad in a warrior's garb while the other wore the robes of a priest. They stood, side by side, before the mighty halls of government, patrons of their kind and founders of the two houses. Legend said that two brothers, one a mighty warrior and the other a wise priest, founded the city thousands of years before. Because the brothers loved each other very much, they decided to share power, and so their lands were ruled by a king and a high priest and no decision could one make without the other's council. This system lasted for many generations, until Khamul the Mad became king.

Khamul was obsessed with immortality and took the names of both king and high priest for himself. He was visited by a mysterious man who named himself a bearer of gifts who promised him the immortality he sought in exchange for an alliance between Rhudel and Mordor in the south. War soon came to Mordor and Rhudel was forced into a war with the people of Numeneor, and later Gondor as the seemingly endless reign of Khamul drug on. It was soon known by the wise that the bearer of Khamul's gift was Sauron of Mordor. If he were any other being, the people would riot for an end to the war, but they remembered the name of Sauron from the holy texts and many said that he was Salmulilum incarnate. They poured themselves into the war, declaring a holy vendetta against the Gondorian people. Then Sauron lost his war. Somehow, he failed and disappeared for many years along with Khamul the Mad. The confused devout claimed that he had returned to the stars, and took the form of a new star over Gondor. A deposed priest led all who would listen in a march to the White City. Few of their number returned to their homeland, but a wrathful army led by the King of Gondor came after them. Rhudel was sacked and the Balcoth, their kinsmen who had also served Sauron, were destroyed entirely. And so came the end of the First Dynasty.

Hith pushed open the heavy doors of the right palace, entering a long hall lit by bright torches and adorned with the carved busts of old kings and khans. He glanced at his father's face, stern and proud. The man had been the best of both the old and the new. He was strong yet wise, and taught his son to value both virtues and to never trust the blindly faithful. He, of course, meant the Council, who had recently taken far more power than he was comfortable with. Many faces further down the line rested the visage of Khan-Shagi himself. In the dark age of chaos after the fall of Khamul and the Gondorian genocide, the wealthy families were the only source of order left in Rhudel. The strongest of these families was the Shagi clan, descendants of a union between the Rhudel and Balcoth. Their high-father, Khan-Shagi, led his family into the abandoned capital and claimed the throne for himself. Within ten years, Khazagon was again the wealthiest city east of Erebor and Khan had built a legacy that had yet to fall. He had the foresight to replace the position of high priest with a council made up of the leaders of the quickly growing number of denominations of the old system, meaning that they would always have internal conflicts that would keep their power in check. Khan had created a system that would remain quite functional until around sixty years before the new war.

In the late days of his grandfather's rule, a mysterious being had joined the Council under guise of a monk of the far east. Soon, the disjointed and apathetic council had found new vigor in their worship. The Khans, as all those who had followed their patron called themselves, were helpless as the Council swore the nation of Rhudel once more to Mordor and ignited a conflict with the men of the south-east over a worthless mountain, ending any hope that Hith might maintain a peaceful and prosperous nation in his time.

Ascending into the heights of the palace, Hith entered his private study and collapsed onto a soft couch, nursing his aching forehead. The past month had not been kind to his nerves and he knew that few more would be. Sauron was going to betray him. From all that he had read, the dark lord was a genius, but was dangerously egocentric. Anyone who stood in the way of his entire domination of Middle Earth would be crushed under his heel, and he clearly viewed Rhudel as a threat to his lordship. A defense of the North and the East would need to be made. Though what allies could he find? Who was left to join him? Dale. The Dwarves of Erebor and the Iron Hills. Maybe even the Elves of Mirkwood would prove an ally. But no move could be made to unite with them until the Council was out of the way. Plans. So many plans. So little time…

* * *

The Eastmost reaches of the Misty Mountains, Later that Night

Arwen Evenstar stumbled upon the lose stones of the mountain foothills, hampered by the ever-growing weight of Gliron's arm. While the man had been relatively lucid when he first woke from the pain induced stupor, his condition had quickly deteriorated. Neither Fateel nor Glorfindel had been of much help with the ranger. She had expected this of Fateel, who had woken from his own unconscious in quite a sour mood, but she would have never expected Glorfindel to be so callous. Since he had taken up that damned black sword, he had grown darker in mood and shorter in temper. His shining blue eyes had taken the light of a starving beast and he looked to every falling stone and shuddering bush as if a meal might spring from it.

Arwen quietly uttered words of command over the sword, but it seemed that a will much more powerful than hers was behind it. She had heard tales of the fateful blade Gurthang from the wise. It was feared by both the armies of Morgoth and the elves of Doriath and Gondolin, but men headed not their words and the greatest of their kind, Turin Turanbar, took it up. He was its only bearer whom the blade had not betrayed, and it only turned against him by his command. In his hands it had bathed in the blood of orcs and men and dragons, but was said to have been broken under its master and buried with him. From what Arwen could gather, it had been reforged but taken to the caves to protect those it sought to slay. Her mind then recalled a questionable prophesy spoken by unknown lips, that pertained to the blade, and how it would end the evil of Morgoth and herald the beginning of a perfect world. This was, of course, never to pass she thought, for all hope of a good world had fled from her mind. All she desired now was to avenge her love and do what little she could to malign the plans of Sauron.

She collided with the back of Fateel, who had stopped behind a now frozen Glorfindel. The passage they had been following had opened unto a wide field bathed in moonlight. Down the hill on which they now stood on, a large camp full of orcs began to stir. Shouts from the twisted creatures aroused the unaware was they saw the gleaming form of Glorfindel above them.

"Ye elf-filth," their captain yelled, "you're here in defiance of the treaty between your people and my Master! Come down 'ere so that we can kill ya' and show ya' to the Dark Lord. I'm sure he'll be happy to invade your lands now that the treaty's been broken!"

"Stand back," said Glorfindel to his fellows, drawing Gurthang from its sheath, "I wish to deal with these wretches myself." Glorfindel strode down the grassy hill, gleaming with the confidence of an Elf Lord of the First Age. Before him amassed a ravenous host, snarling and chomping at him as they drew their crude blades.

"Come upon me, filth!" Arousing the wrath of his foes, Glorfindel raised his blade as the orcs charged at him. Arwen looked down upon the clash, and could not tell if she felt exhilaration or terror at the sight of an Elven Lord unleashed. Glorfindel moved like a hurricane, sweeping the blade in powerful archs that cleaved many heads in single sweeps. Torrents of black blood spilled around him as he tore through the now panicked host. Those orcs that did not flee were torn apart, and those that turned to run found their spines cut apart. Within minutes, a bloody mass had surrounded Glorfindel, whose white cape was stained black and his body untouched by any blade. He bent as if to take charge after the few that escaped his wrath, but was stopped by Fateel's hard grasp on his shoulder. He spun to face the man, a fire in his eyes as if he wished to slay the man, but calmed and took in the vista of the battlefield.

"Well done, elf," Fateel said with uncharacteristic approval, "though I would have been more than happy to help."

"Maybe you will be of some use in our next confrontation. Now, we must make haste for Lothlorien. Come!"

"Gliron needs rest!" shouted Arwen as she stumbled down the hill with the exhausted man, "he will not last if we go on!"

"There will be rest enough in Lorien," Glorfindel said as he turned away, "we might reach the Golden Wood by sunrise if we make good time."

"I agree with the she-elf," Fateel said, "we made it over the mountain. Time is now on our side."

"Time?" Glorfindel snapped, "time has not been on our side since we left Eregion, and will not be until we reach Lothlorien! If Gliron cannot make the trek, then he must stay behind."

With that, Glorfindel began to stride toward the distant wood. Realizing the futility of their situation, Arwen and Fateel followed. Arwen was surprised when she felt Gliron's arm leave her shoulder as Fateel took him up. He nodded to her, and the pair followed after the determined lord.

They trudged on through the night towards Lorien, occasionally passing distant torches and signs of warfare on the fields. They heard several cries carry through the night air, but headed them little as they pushed on. Just as the first rays of the morning sun spilled over the horizon, they came upon the first of the majestic Mallorn trees of Lothorian. Their pale bark shone in the morning light, and their leaves glistened shimmering yellow. They wandered into to the wood, expecting to be waylaid by those who guarded the borders, but they came upon no one.

"I did not wish to be the bearer of unsettling news," said Fateel, who had slipped to the back of the company, "But am I the only one who noticed that there was no blockade around the wood?"

"I also noticed" said Arwen, placing her hand on the hilt of her blade, "we should not go further."

"No," snapped Glorfindel as he continued into the wood, "Our mission is to go to Caras Galadhon and inform Celeborn of the situation in the West. We may also find help for Gliron in the capital."

Thoroughly agitated, Awren and Fateel continued to follow Glorfindel's lead, venturing deep into the Golden Wood. The sun had crawled far into the west by the time they reached the center of the wood, but they had come across no signs of Elves nor Orcs. Glorfindel shouted as he reached the pinnacle of a small hill.

"I cannot believe it! The city has been abandoned!"

Joining him, the three others (Gliron had come back to his senses sometime earlier in the day) stared out at Cara Galadhon. The city in the trees had no light nor was occupied by any elves. No elf warrior nor healer nor singer remained.

"What happened?" said Fateel, "How could we have traveled all this way only to find an abandoned city?"

"I…do not know."

* * *

Ost-in-Edhil

Elrond stood atop the last remaining tower of the old capital of Eregion, looking over the now mighty mass that had assembled to resist Sauron. He had been pleasantly surprised they the willingness of the northmen to fight, for many men of Bree and the north realms had come. They were amongst many dwarves and elves, and he thought that they might have a chance to resist the armies of Mordor for many night before darkness fell upon them. His moment of happiness was gone at that thought, and he turned once more to dark thoughts. He was interrupted by the sound of distant horns. Looking out to the south, he could make out the shape of a long, gleaming line. _The Galadhrim!_ he thought _They have come to our aid!_

That was when he caught a faint whistle in the air and, to his shock, an arrow shot from afar stabbed into the stone next to him. Attached to the shaft was a note. Dread swelling in his heart, he unraveled the parchment.

 _Elrond Betrayer, I challenge thee for the honor of Galadriel the Faithless. I know of your dealings with my wife, and I will have thine head for her ransom. Come to me, blade in hand, if thou have any honor left._

 _~Celeborn the Brokenhearted_


	7. Chapter 7: The Last Kin-Strife

Lothlorien, fourteen days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

Celeborn, lord of Lothlorien and husband of Galadriel, leaned into his arm, doing his best to ignore the well of despair in his heart. Three captains of the Galadhrim stood before him, each having given a report of the failure of the campaign in Mirkwood. Dol Guldor, the hill of sorcery, had been under siege by the elves of both Lothlorien and the Greenwood on the day Sauron had reclaimed the Ring and, when the balance of power had shifted, the dark captain of the fortress turned the tide of battle against his foes. The elves of Thranduil's Halls were the first to fall. Creatures with the forms of men, wrights maybe, had arisen out of ancient tombs beneath the hill and overwhelmed the Wood-Elves, tearing them apart with mad fury. It had long been rumored that the hills of Mirkwood were Numenorian barrows, but it had never crossed Celeborn's worst nightmares that the dead there might be awoken. The Galadhrim had been positioned far from the swarm of the dead during their attack, but they were surrounded by orcs, wargs, and other dark things within the hour. It had taken them seven days to fight their way out of the dark wood and they had lost many before they had escaped the forest and fled through the Vales of the Anduin.

Celeborn slumped deeper into his wooden throne, glancing sidelong at the empty seat beside him. Where was Galadriel? His wife had persuaded him to attack Dol Guldor and yet she was gone when he needed her most. Orcs now stalked the borders of Lothlorien and its lady was gone. It had been many years since Celeborn could claim that he was his wife's equal. In their youth, they had fallen in love, and faced many challenges together. They had escaped the wrath of both Dark Lords on many occasions, and had come through stronger and ever more in love each time. But that was before the Ring. Nenya, the Elven ring of adamant, had been a gift to Galadriel by their then king, Celebrimbor. He had imparted great power into his three, and granted them to the those he trusted most. Despite the obvious advantages one gained through the possession of a ring of power, Galadriel changed when she slipped the shining white band upon her finger, and not particularly for the better. She had become more aloof, distant. She confessed to her husband the terrible burden it had placed upon her shoulders. Despite this, she grew ever more powerful, eventually rivaling even the might of the Istari. It was clear to most who was the true power of Lothlorien.

"My lord!" shouted an elf as he approached Celeborn, "a matter has arisen that requires your immediate attention!"

"What now?" Celeborn already felt his temples ache harder with the added weight of this new problem. It was then that a different feeling seeped into his heart, as if the air had been filled with a sickly smog. Celeborn closed his eyes, trying to force the poison out of his mind. He barely noticed the sound of heavy foot-falls and clanking chains as they entered his chamber, yet he was pulled from his meditation by a strong, deep voice that called out with a honeyed cadence.

"Why hello my old friend, it has been some time since we last met."

Celeborn's eyes darted up and, to his shock, a tall figure clad in dazzling, yet dirt-stained white robes stood before him. His grey bread was ragged and he leaned upon a crooked stick of yew wood. His charming countenance was clearly a mask stretched over a weary, embittered soul. Despite his seeming frailty, the old man was surrounded by several wary guards, who also held a particularly foul looking man by his hunched shoulders.

"It is brave of you to call me friend, Saruman." Celeborn looked down upon the wizard with contempt, "As I was last aware, you had betrayed the council and had broken every oath of service you swore before Eru Illuvitar."

"Yes," Saruman replied with a submissive nod, "I have been the victim of several regrettable choices that have understandably shaken your trust in me."

"Shaken is an understatement."

"'Tis no use master," the ill-favored man, oily skin speckled with dirt, wined, "this elf bastard isn't worth the groveling."

The man fell back into the arms of his captors as a smack rang out from his face. Saruman, a furious scowl replacing his smile, nursed his hand as he returned his attention to the Elven king.

"I understand your anger with me and I will accept whatever punishment befalls me once our mutual problems are dealt with, however, I believe that I can be a most valuable ally."

"Ally," Celeborn scoffed, "what madness would drive you to believe that you could be an ally to Lothlorien? Out of the friendship we once shared, I will not have you killed but you will hold no position higher than the lowest prisoner. Guards, take him away."

"I am quite disappointed, my lord. I had hoped that we could discuss your wife's exploits."

"What?"

"Wise lord, I have many spies in this world. Crows have long been my friends and there are few wary enough to suspect that the birds in the trees might share their eyes with others."

"Enough flowered words," Celeborn snapped, "what do you know of my wife? Where is she?"

"Patience, my lord. As you well know, Orthanc recently was taken from me by the Shepherds of Fanghorn Forest. I initially believed myself to be a prisoner there, though the Ents are not entirely clever, and allowed myself and my thrall to leave at my leisure. Before I did so however, I sent out crows to many high places, including Rivendell. I soon learned that Galadriel had taken up residence there and spoke for you in many councils of war, even granting Elrond the full might of your army."

A twinge of bitterness flashed through the Elven lord. When had he granted her permission to speak on his behalf in such important councils?

"She often knows my mind on such matters," he replied, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt.

"Yes of course, but that was not all I saw. Allow me to show you that which my crows beheld."

Curiosity overwhelming his caution, Celeborn leaned forward, allowing Saruman to place his spindly hands upon his temples. Like a flood of freezing water, images flooded his mind. They poured away as quickly as they had come in, yet Celeborn could neither move nor speak once they were cleared away. Red slowly creeped from the corners of his eyes and his expression twisted into something between a deep, sorrowful stare and a disgusted, wrathful grimace.

"I am so sorry, my friend."

"How do I know this is not trickery?" Celeborn hissed

"You know I cannot create such images. They were seen."

A long moment passed before Celeborn, staring blankly into the night sky beyond his chamber, extended his arm towards the empty seat beside him.

"What would you have me do?"

Accepting the offer, Saruman took his place beside the lord. "You are alone against the oncoming onslaught of Sauron, and the only hope you have of saving your people and reclaiming your honor is to move west. I hear rumor that the host of Rivendell will be encamped at the ruins of Ost-En-Idhil. March upon them and challenge Elrond. Make his betrayal known before all his forces and disgrace him. Not only will you reclaim your honor, but the host of the North will rally to you."

Celeborn silently pondered the wizard's words for a long moment before looking up the captains of the Galadhrim before him.

"Muster all of the people. Lothlorien is lost to us, we march west at day break. We march for our honor."

Ost-en-Idhil, thirty-one days after the Reclamation of the One Ring

The joy that had enveloped the military encampment at Ost-en-Idhil had dissolved into a confused panic as soon as their commanders had ordered their men into formation. The distant glint of the golden armor of the Galadhrim had been a sign of hope for the elves, men, and dwarves dreading the advance of Mordor, though that relief as soon gone entirely as they were formed into long rows ready for battle. The elves of Rivendell had taken the front lines, their bronze armor shining bright red in the evening sunlight. A sharp trumpet broke the tense silence as a line of riders found their way before the host. Elrond, fully armed in his own radiant suit, was followed by the Lady Galadriel and several Elves of his court. He was met by the Dunedain Albador, clearly angered by the sudden call to arms.

"What in Eru's name is going on here?" His white beard was damp with sloppily drunken ale.

"That is none of your concern," snapped Elrond as he brushed the burly man aside.

"Like hell it isn't! Ya' got my men out 'ere."

"Elrond," Galadriel gabbed the determined lord by the shoulder. "This conflict cannot come to blows between armies. Please, try to settle this in peace."

Elrond turned to her, yet his eyes were kept far from her own. He had not spoken more than five words to her since that fateful night, partially out of preoccupation but mostly out of shame. She felt the same way as he, as far as he could tell, though she believed the wave of emotional depravity that had overcome them was the will of some other entity. He didn't share that opinion. The shame was upon himself and to deny it would have been just as depraved.

"Celeborn and I have a matter to attend to."

Soon, the line of Galadhrim were close enough to form rank, marching upon their kinsmen ready for battle. The line was two hundred elves long and twenty deep, and behind the line rode and marched thousands of civilians. It was aas if the entirety of Lothloien had been emptied. At the head of the host, Celeborn rode upon a silver steed, and to his side was another rider, though his identity was hidden by a white hood. Celeborn was clad in a gilded steel suit over shining silver mail. As he came closer, he unsheathed his radiant sword, Gluarele, thrusting it into the air as he commanded the legion to halt. With a crack of his reigns, he rode forward along with a small company.

"People of the north!" He shouted, "I come not to war with you! My conflict is with Elrond of Rivendell, for he has disgraced my house and…"

At that moment, he saw his wife. His heart, torn between his wrathful emotions and his peaceful nature, broke when he saw her eyes. They seemed to cry out to him in sorrow and regret and begged him not to shame her. Memories of happier times struck at him. Though he wished to hate her, his heart was still bound to hers and his love for could not be so easily broken. The fell will that gripped his mind was briefly overwhelmed by love and sorrow, and so he turned to Elrond without finishing his address.

"For the sake of my wife and my kinsmen, I will give you this one chance. Go to the West, and never return to Middle-Earth."

Elrond looked upon his counterpart with an intensity that could have broken the will of a dragon.

"I wronged you, and I ask for your forgiveness, though I will never abandon my world in its time of need. And do tell me, how long has your mind been poisoned by the words of Saruman?"

Elrond's company drew their blades as the wizard pulled back his hood. He chucked softy as he examined the fear and malice in their eyes.

"I was but a messenger to Lord Celeborn, and I acted as any man should for old friends. Do not hold it against me."

"Enough!" Celeborn snapped, "If you still have any honor, betrayer, ride upon me. Do battle with me lest I turn your armies against you."

Celeborn kicked his horse back, riding to the centerground between the two armies. A sudden malice overcame Elrond, and he charged after the Lord of Lothlorien, drawing his own blade as he neared him.

"You should not have come as my foe, Celeborn," he called in a final attempt at peace, "we needed your armies to oppose Sauron!"

"Then you should never have defiled my wife!" Celeborn spurred his horse into a charge, raising his blade to strike. Elrond moved quickly, parrying the strike and lunging from his saddle, falling into the mucky earth with Celeborn in his grasp. Both elves scrambled to their feet, staring each other down. For a long moment, both refused to move, waiting for the other to strike. As if spurred by a shared force, both elves attacked at once. Elrond stabbed at Celeborn's shoulder while Gluarele did the same. The blades clashed and clashed and clashed again and again and again. The two lords moved with the grace and wrath of the mightiest of the Eldar, striking and blocking with such speed that they seemed a blur of gold and bronze to the armies that watched. The sun crawled through the pale sky, and they still fought. Neither fell into exhaustion, but rather, it seemed that their fury only grew as the dual progressed. Celeborn moved with prowess and savvy nurtured in the Age of the Trees, though Elrond fought with strength and skill honed in the wars against Sauron. Though weariness tugged at neither combatant, it soon became clear that Elrond's strength would eventually outmatch his foe. Soon, Celeborn was desperately blocking and deflecting the blade work that tore at him like the claws of a ravenous beast. A rage had come upon Elrond, and his eyes were not his own. Celeborn fell back, raising Gluarele in desperation. Elrond swung down upon his foe, though, as he was about to cut the sword from Celeborn's arm, a bright light erupted between them. A figure in white stood in the light, casting it upon both Elves.

 _Saruman_! Elrond slashed blindly, feeling his blade pass through flesh. A shocked gasp escaped the figure as the light faded. Elrond turned to cleave the Wizards head from his shoulders, yet, when he turned, it was not Saruman who stood before him. Galadriel stared into his eyes as she clutched her stomach. Red stained her dress and her flesh and entrails began to slip out of the gaping wound that had nearly bisected her. Elrond stumbled back in horror as she fell. Her shivering frame fell into the murk next to the half-standing Celeborn. With a terrible cry, he fell at her side, taking her up into his arms. He begged for her not to leave him and pleaded with Eru to let her stay with him, though his prayers were not answered.

"For…Forgive me…" With a final rasp, Galadriel, Lady of Lothlorien, passed.

Celeborn heaved over his wife, clutching her lifeless body to his chest as if she might return through his embrace. Elrond stared down at him, shaking as he repressed his horror. He had killed her. It was all his fault. He looked around at the crowds still encircling them, searching for any sign of support. He saw the members of his own court staring at him in shock and fear. The army of elves and men stirred with tension, most having quickly realized the repercussions that would likely fall upon them. He turned to see Saruman, standing near the Galadhrim, with a similar horrified expression, though he seemed as if a plan he had put all his card in had suddenly collapsed.

"Celeborn," Elrond said, trying to conceal the fear that had taken root in his voice, "I swear that I did not know it was her."

Celeborn stared away into nothing, still clutching his wife.

"I thought she was Saruman."

"Galadhrim," Celeborn shouted, "Take aim!"

As one, the entire legion of Lothloiren notched and raised their bows towards the army of the north.

"Please," Elrond stepped back in shock, "would she have wanted the blood of her people shed for vengeance?"

"It doesn't matter anymore. She's gone. But know this, Elrond Kinslayer, though you were not of his kin, the blood of house Feanor has seeped deep into you. I will have no peace with you, not until you pay in turn for the fate you have imparted onto me." A long moment passed before he spoke again, for he had lost himself in Galadriel's still face. "Though I will not war with you, not here. Not…"

It was then that all hell broke loose. The twang of a bow filled the air, and Elrond was thrown back. At the sight of their lord's peril, the elves of Rivendell surged forward while the Rangers of the North fired upon the Galadhrim. The Galadhrim loosed their bows, felling dozens of their foes, though many more fell upon them in wrath. The field was soon a sea of chaos, and the earth was stained red with the blood of the kinslaying. Elrond, shoulder pierced by a heavy shaft, was pulled through the battle by his guards. As darkness creeped around the corners of his vision, he thought he could see Celeborn take up the body of Galadriel and turn to stare upon him in absolute hate. Then all was black.


	8. Chapter 8: The Dark Lord's Guest

Barad-Dur, Sixty-Days after the Reclamation of the One Ring.

Sauron, Lord of the Realms of Men, basked in the glory that had encompassed his fortress citadel. From his vantage point atop the baloney of the highest chamber of the tower of Barad-Dur, he examined the bustling work of hundreds of architects, mostly gold-smiths of Rhudel, and the long, trailing caravans coming to and fro from the Black Gate, Minas Morgul, and Seregost. Wealth had poured out of the captured cities of Gondor and Rohan, and the dark lord had felt that a good portion of the loot would be best suited in the indispensable investment of vanity. While Barad-Dur had suited his needs and he adored the orchestral style of his fortress, all self-designed of course, he had grown tired of the flat black exterior. By his orders, Barad-Dur had been decorated with pure gold details, shimmering metal defining the sharp edges of the spires and forming delicate designs along walls and smooth spaces.

Despite his solitude, Sauron turned to his chamber with a dramatic flair of his shadowy cape. He strode the distance to his high throne, a seat of polished obsidian and shimmering mithril. While he did not especially care for the silvery hue of the precious metal, he found that its composition was better suited for omnisciancy. He assumed that the metal was somehow separated from the dark will his former master had imposed upon Middle-earth, allowing him to better separate his own will from the physical realm. Taking his seat, he clutched the rests and began to force his consciousness from the form he had assumed. Like a terrible flame, the will of Sauron poured from his body and into the heights of Barad-Dur. From the twin spires of Barad-Dur, his mind assumed a terrible shape, an eye wreathed in flame. Like a telescope of dark sorceries, the eye allowed the dark lord to see anywhere he so desired. He turned his attention to Gondor and the crumbling city of Osgiliath. The white ruins were clouded by billowing clouds of smoke. Factories, constructed from the ancient bricks of the former capital, were fueled by wheels churned by the River Anduin. From their gates poured many goods of war. Sauron had ordered them to produce swords and armor for his growing army of men, though he secretly hoped that they would one day churn out objects of vanity for the soon-to-be prosperous people under his will. Would not every man, woman, and child need a gold or silver idol of his magnificent image once the war was won?

Sauron looked upon the city of Minas Tirith, or Minas Orthor as its new governor demanded it be called. He was quite annoyed with himself for allowing Zagathor to take hold of the citadel. Rather than obey his orders to convert the tower into a mining complex (the white mountains it clung too were to be stripped), the Nazgul had wasted its resources by remaking it into a temple of self-worship. Statues of his old body watched over every building and his personal banner, a dark mirror of the Numenorian shield, flew over every roof. Adding Zagathor's re-leashing to his to-do list, Saruon turned to Rohan. He was amused by the sight of a small band of Rohirrim fleeing from the host of the Witch-King. Now there was a dependable minion. Sauron knew the wraith's aspirations to reign as sovereign of Gondor, though he was far too valuable as a military leader to put on the throne of Minas whatever-it-was-to-be-called. The Witch-King would have to wait for his prize.

He looked upon Orthanc and greed flooded his heart. The Ents and those of the Rohirrm and Dunlandings who took refuge within the walls of Isenguard would not die easily. The tower was made of that damned indestructible stone the Numenorians were so fond of. He might need to arrange for a manipulation of the Ents to take the fort. Was that not why he had forbidden the burning of Fanghorn Forest? While its role as a bargaining chip did provide a convenient excuse for his commanders, he had decided in private to convert the forest into a new personal place of meditation. Such places untainted by time were hard to come by in this age and he desired to keep it so. Rumor had reached his ear that another such forest existed in the north, near the land of the halflings (another matter he would deal with in its time).

With much excitement, he looked upon Ost-en-Idhil, where the Galadhrim had proved victorious in another bloody battle in the Elvish Civil War. This was another matter of immense pride for him, for he had achieved another act of terror that his former lord had not. While the elves were no strangers to the occasional kin-slaying, they had claimed to have put that darkness behind them. Yet, the First Born now slaughtered each other by the will of lords clearly suffering from some degree of madness. Not only had his influence led to the death of one of the few remaining powers that might rival him, but it also weakened the last of those who guarded the north from his advance. Sauron was quite pleased with himself.

Suddenly, a change in the air around his physical form forced Sauron to abandon his watch. Looking though his own eye once more, the dark lord stood in surprise as a foul mist poured over the balcony and into his chamber. It stunk of the dregs of the sea and a thousand foul beasts of the depths. Drawing his fell mace from the void, Sauron peered into the sickly vapor that had quickly enveloped him. Within its depths, he could make out a writhing form; a mass of slimy, snakely arms and insect-like claws. Before he could utter a belittling remark, the monstrosity lunged upon him. Sauron swung upon it in defense, shattering one of the shelled claws that stabbed at his face. He surrounded himself with fire and swung wrathfully, yet he was soon overwhelmed by the horde of tentacles that thrashed around him. His body was enveloped and it was with a desperate struggle that he kept his left hand, that which bore the Ring, away from the snapping appendages. His initial confusion and shock was quickly replaced with a blinding fury and his dark form grew red hot with anger-induced fire. The being screamed from an unseen mouth as its arms began so simmer and it released Sauron as it tried to slip away.

"You will not escape your punishment so easily!"

Sauron poured his will through the Ring, attacking the mind of this creature. It squirmed and twitched in pain and shifted between many forms.

"Who are you?" The dark lord demanded, for this being's mind was somehow closed from his probing. As if the Ring had lost all effect on it, the being ceased its mad struggling and began to shift between forms in an almost graceful manner.

"Oh Mairon," an unseen laughter filled the murky air, "am I so easily forgotten?"

From the mass emerged a form somewhat akin to a woman. Her bare skin was a sickly grey, hued with tinges of blue and green. Her body. from her face to her waist, was nearly that of a fair yet mighty elven maiden, though, upon her hips, her flesh seemed to be a garb of tentacles and webbed skin. This "dress" seemed to cover another mass of spiked legs and claws, again to some terrible crab.

"Gwaisagma," Sauron snapped, quite frustrated, less by the intrusion and more by the flood of questions that her presence created, "I thought you were dead."

The sickly woman laughed at this, "Do you really think that I could be killed so easily? Once I realized we were going to lose, I escaped the Battle of Angband and took up residence in the swamps of the south. You wouldn't believe how ready the men of the swamplands were to worship the first thing of power that stumbled into their filthy lands"

"So," Sauron replied, warily retaking his throne, "You are why a group of barbarians from the south begged me to kill a Dark Goddess. Apparently, a neighboring tribe kidnapps their children every year to sacrifice to their goddess."

"What other title would I take? Dark Lady?" Gwaisagma smirked, "A little beneath me, do you not think?"

"You are in my sanctuary," Saruon snapped, "I expect to be treated with respect becoming the Lord of Middle-earth."

"Ooooh," she scuttled closer to the throne, fanning her dark eye lashes, "stepping up from the plaything of Morgoth, I see."

The dark lord lept from his throne, taking her throat in his clutches.

"Who do you take me for?" he roared into her face, "That fool was no match for my mind even at his mightiest! I played the role of a loyal lieutenant so that I may pull his strings. Who do you think organized the infrastructure of his war machine? Who might you believe bred the dragons and vampires and werewolves? Gothmog? Neaglas? I was the true master of Angband!"

This rant spurred by old bitterness seemed only to amuse Gwaisagma, "And yet here you are, thousands of years later," she quipped, "Still angry that father didn't like you the best. What happened to you? You used to be better with words."

Sauron released her and stalked to the balcony, looking over his dark land. "Many things have happened, and I have come out all the stronger for them." He was silent for a long moment. "Why are you here, sea-bitch? And why did you attack me?"

"Ah, that old name." she smiled as if recalling happy memories of an old friend, "I forgot how much it used to infuriate me." She stepped alongside her counterpart, shifting again to take on the legs of a woman rather than the carapace of a beast. "I heard that you were waging a war. I thought you might want some help."

"And claim a part of the spoils for yourself. Do not flatter yourself, you are almost as much of an opportunist as I."

"Maybe."

"That still doesn't explain why you attacked me."

"I thought it would be entertaining, just like old times." She sighed with exaggerated nostalgia, "I'm quite surprised you didn't shift forms. What was your preferred form? A werewolf, right?"

"I cannot do so anymore."

"What? How did you…"

"I underestimated the level of pettiness an all-powerful being can muster."

"Oh, I see. So, you are why Numenor sank, apparently along with your body. Tell me, what do you look like now under all that armor?"

"Not pleasant."

They both stood silently for quite some time before Sauron began to chuckle softly to himself. Gwaisagma turned to him, confused. Sauron, now with an audience, turned with a dramatic swing of his cape and beckoned for her to follow. He led her to a stair case leading down from his observation chamber and into his private rooms. He led her through a long room filled with trophies, casually describing those he found interesting.

"This," he said, pointing to the shards of a sword suspended in mid-air, "used to be Glamdring, the former sword of Turgon of Gondolin and Gandalf the Istari. Do you remember Olorin from Valanor? He was a thorn in my side for many years, yet he was the first to fall in my new era."

"And this was the sword that haunted me for a thousand years." He pointed to another sword, this one intact, "Narsil it was, and Andruil it is. I might yet find a suitably ironic use for the Flame of the West."

They passed rows of crowns taken form the heads of kings and princes, and a case of nine rings guarded by silent creatures of metal and stone. There were many trinkets and such from many battles and wars, but Gwaisagma took very little interest in any of it until they stopped before a tall, iron door.

"This, my lady," due to his tone, she could not tell if Sauron said this genuinely, "is why I brought you down here. I seem to recall that, in the old days, you took a certain delight in inflicting pain upon the imprisoned."

"Oh, how sweet of you to remember," due to her tone, he could not tell if she was genuine.

"You see, I spent nearly one hundred years warping the minds of nine kings in order to turn them into wraiths under my will. I gifted each a ring of power, and then slowly used my own ring to corrupt their hearts and minds. Eventually, their souls were trapped in the void and their bodies were nothing more than puppets that would eventually be discarded. The results of all that work was worth the trouble, for I have nine powerful and nearly immortal commanders at my disposal. However, I recently came upon an interesting development. Three rings of power, far more powerful than the nine, fell into my grasp. What was I to do with them? Well, allow me to show you my pet project."

Sauron swung open the door to a pitch-black room, though the sounds of pain issued at the sound of the iron clashing. With a flick of his wrist, he illuminated the small chamber, and Gwaisagma gasped with delight. At the far end of the blood and excrement-stained chamber hung three mortals, two men and a woman. Their naked bodies dangled from the ceiling by the wrists, and they were mutilated and emaciated. Despite their agonized and drained appearances, a faint glimmer shone from each of their fingers and their infected, pus-seeping wounds seemed to glow with a sickly essence.

"Who are these beauties?" Gwaisagma stepped closer, excitingly examining the prisoners.

"These were leaders of the realms of men who defied me. The man in the middle, he was a descendant of Isildur, a Gondorian king who attempted to kill me. This man swore to finish what he started and take the throne for himself. Look where that got him. The man on the left was the son of a steward on Gondor. He could have been a mighty commander of Gondor, for he had both a sound mind and a brave heart. I believe I have shattered both. And this maiden here was part of the royal family of Rohan. She nearly killed one of my mightiest servants, but she was doomed to fail, just like the rest.

You see, I overwhelmed the hearts and minds of the Nazgul through subtly, but they could not reach their full potential, not without a great deal of suffering. That was why, when I was given a second opportunity to perfect the method, I took three men of great power and mind and subjected them to my will under three mighty rings and immeasurable suffering. Not only will this produce a stronger wraith, but it will also do so much faster. Now, feel free to play with them as you see fit."

With a sinister yet gleeful grin stretching across her face, Gwaisagma turned to the men in the center and tore her claws across his face. He yelped like a beaten dog. The four long gashes across his face simmered with a faint mist which she assumed meant was part of this transformation Sauron referred to. She heard a clang of iron and turned to see that Sauron had left her alone with the three.

 _Damn, I missed him…_

Returning her attention to the half-dead prisoners at her mercy, she began to work.

Nearly three hours later, Gwaisagma found Sauron in a sort of lounge where he was reading upon a long couch. He had replaced his suit of armor with thick black robes, yet his head was still covered by his helm.

"Did you have fun?" he said once he realized she was present.

"More than I've had in years," she replied, falling next to him. "It is so much more enjoyable when they cannot die. Though, I should warn you, one might have the egg of a particularly nasty crustacean incubating in his stomach."

"That's quite alright." The dark lord returned his attention to his tome. He soon felt the cold body of the Maia touch his own, sending wave of tension through his muscles. "I would rather you not do that," he said through gritted teeth.

"What's wrong, Mairon?" She inched closer, making an effort to make sure that her breasts were pressed against him. "You didn't mind this kind of contact nine thousand years ago."

"I know what you are doing and what you hope to get from me. You should know that you that you will get no such pleasure nor favor from your current actions."

"Why not?" she asked as seductively as she could manage.

"You see, when one loses his body through irretrievable means, he loses the ability to partake in the pleasures of the flesh. He cannot taste meat or wine. He cannot have meaningful contact without feeling pain. And he cannot feel any desire for another's body, making him completely resistant to seduction."

Gwaisagma slid back, more disappointed than angry, yet her frustration was clear upon her tongue. "At least let me look upon your face so that I may know you are not lying to me."

"No."

A long moment of silence passed before either spoke again. "I will show you," Sauron sighed, "so that you will see that I am no longer Mairon."

Slowly, Sauron removed his helm. At the sight of him, Gwaisagma stepped away in horror and disgust. He rose, looking upon her with his true, shamed face: blackened soot for skin; liquid fire for blood that leaked from his cracked visage; an empty, dark socket beneath his brow; and a flaming cat's eye in the other.

"Yes, sea bitch, look upon me, foul and disgraced as I am. I wish not for your body as you now do not wish for mine. You will gain nothing from acts of seduction or groveling. I will take you as an ally, but never as a friend nor a lover. Is that clear?"

"As crystal." Composing herself, Gwaisagma strode from the chamber without another word.

"I am in need of a general." Sauron called after her hesitantly. "Until the new wraiths are ready, I lack a suitable commander for the Eastern Campaign. I plan on sending an expeditionary force into Rhun to dethrone the current government. If you so wish for it, you are granted control of that force."

She stopped, turning to the dark lord with a wicked smile. "I would be more than happy to."


	9. Chapter 9: The Easterling Conspiracy

The city of Dale shivered under the unnatural cold that poured south from the man-less realms of the far north. Despite the approach of summer, soft flurries fell lazily upon the ornate blue-tiled roofs of the city. Rumor had it that one of the servants of Sauron had taken up residence in an ancient tower in the frozen reaches of Forodwaith and had set in place a curse of foul weather. Not only had the ground frozen overnight when it came time to sow the crops in the eastern farmlands, but now the grasses that the herds of cattle and goats needed to survive had begun to wither.

 _So, he has already set his plan into motion._ Hith-Shagi, clad in the simple raiment of a traveler, wandered through the overcrowded streets of the market district of Dale, passing by garrisons of Rhunic occupation troops and Dalish citizens who kept a wide breadth of the soldiers. The high-end shops of Dale had not suffered too greatly under the occupation, for there would always be a demand for handmade items for the wealthy, though many small stores and eateries struggled to keep their doors open. Hith pitied the commoners who were now forced to support the brunt of the reparation taxes. _If only their kings had not forced them into a war they could not win._ Despite the gravity of the situation, he forced himself to remain focused on the issue at hand by keeping his eyes from locking with those of the beggars who littered the streets.

"Kama," he said to the similarly clad man who trailed him, "are we nearing the tavern?"

"Yes, m'lord," he replied with the heavy accent of the eastmost Varag clans, "The Comely Vixen lies just two more blocks ahead."

In the past month of plotting and scheming, Hith had found himself alone except for the council and company of his guardsman, Kama. He was the same archer who had been recruited to his bodyguard following the Battle of Erebor, and he had proved not only trustworthy, but also worldly-wise in ways that Hith could not hope to compare to. A lifetime in palaces and libraries had not been kind to his sense of intuition, yet Kama proved to be his opposite in every way that would be of help. The archer had even been the mastermind behind the secret meeting that they now were attempting to attend, though caution took precedent over hastiness. It would be most counterproductive for it to be known that the Khan had arrived in Dale alone and without fanfare. Soon, the duo found themselves in the shadier side of Dale, passing suspicious-looking shops and squalid brothels. They approached a poorly-kept tavern, marked by a placard in the shape of a busty maiden with flowing red hair.

 _The Comely Vixen_

A small group of ruffians lingered by the scarlet-painted door, smoking and laughing.

"What 'ave we got 'ere?" Shouted a particularly ugly yet brawny man to his fellows, "A couple a' brown-skinned orc fuckers?" This insult drew a series of cackles from the gang.

"Get lost, Easties," snipped a man who had an uncanny resemblance to a goat, "this 'ere joint isn't for your kind."

"Gentlemen," Hith said, approaching as if his authority would be recognized, "it would be in your best interest to allow my friend and I to enter."

This aroused another chorus of laughter. Hith retreated a few steps, clearly at a loss for words and actions. As if on que, Kama stepped forward and, with all his great brawn behind him, threw his fist into the face of the first man. With a sickening crunch erupting from his nose, the man fell onto his back, stunned. Within moments, every ruffian was throwing his fist at Kama, who blocked most of the blows and seemed unaffected by those that landed. He moved with the finesse of a trained martial artist and threw his fists with the strength of a tested brawler. Within moments, the Dalish men were either moaning in pain upon the ground or standing at an ample distance from the Easterling. Clutching his broken and bleeding nose, the brute who had first been struck stood to face Kama, but rather than attack him, he began to laugh.

"Where the hell did ya' learn who to fight like that mate?"

"My great-grandsire created the Art of the Ibris during the Second Gondorian War. It is an honored tradition in my clan to learn it, but at heart I am an archer, so I never mastered it."

"Bloody hell, mate!" shouted the man with a hearty laugh, "Ya' could've fooled me! Come on in, and, if ya' show me some of them swings, drinks are on me!"

With the arm of arm of the man who moments before would have happily killed him around his shoulders, Kama was dragged into the tavern. Looking back at Hith, who warily followed behind, he laughed in their native lounge, "It is all about respect with men like this."

Passing through the doorway, Hith was hit with a murky heat and the rank odor of sweat and poorly kept ale. The dark dining room was lit only by a raging fireplace and the little natural light that pierced the heavy shutters. Feeling quite lost, as Kama had been hauled to the bar, Hith began to frantically scan the room for those who he came to meet. A collection of seedy looking men and dwarves filled the small hall, many sitting around a circular table where a red-haired woman, similar in appearance to the woman on the sign yet clad in far less, danced seductively. Ignoring her, Hith peered into the darkest corner of the tavern where two individuals sat, staring at him. Approaching them, the Khan soon realized who they were. One was a man clad in a blue tunic. His long black hair fell loosely about his grim, clean shaven face and he twirled an arrowhead in his calloused fingers. The other was a fiery-bearded dwarf, hooded in burgundy. A gilded-steel warhammer rested by his chair and in his glove was a tall tankard of mead. Both glared at him, anger clearly brewing beneath their furrowed brows. _At least Bard and Thorin headed my summons._

"Do you mind if I have a seat?" he asked as discreetly as possible.

"I don't know your royal-fucking-highness, do we?"

Bard briefly directed his glare to his comrade, who was clearly there under duress.

"You could have summoned us more…officially."

Hith sat before them, summoning as much commanding presence as he could manage given the situation.

"Yes, I could have. But then the Council would know that I am collaborating with you."

"Collaborating he calls it," Thorin took a swig of his mead as if to dull his frustrations, "I wonder what he calls the taxes? An investment opportunity?"

A flash of anger poured into Hith's heart. "As I seem to recall, the only reason you have to pay those taxes is because you and your fathers refused to surrender before blood was shed."

"Your reparations have left my people on the streets." snapped Bard.

"Your taxes to pay the reparations have left the people on the streets, and yet you and Thorin still eat the finest Greenwood venison and drink the finest Dorwinnion wine."

"Listen here ya' bastard," Thorin shouted, smashing his tankard on the table, "Your men carted away half the gold of Erebor, including my father's crown and my mother's wedding ring. Don't talk to me about sacrifice."

"Where do you think that gold went? To Rhudel? I've nary seen a coin from this arrangement. Your birthright now decorates the tower of Sauron and, lest we act, he will take the rest."

At this, the two kings raised their eyebrows.

"Act? How so?"

"What would make you betray your damn god?"

"Firstly, Sauron is not my god. I have seen him. I have attended his councils. He is no god. He simply likes that title because it feeds his ego. Secondly, from these councils and my time at Barad Dur, I came to realize that our alliance with him is not a mutually beneficial one. He will betray Rhudel." Hith's frustration cooled, and his expression changed into a barely concealed sorrow, "My people cannot stand alone against Mordor, especially when most of them still worship Sauron. You, my kings, are the only hope we have of standing against him."

A long moment passed before another word was said.

"Why should we help you?" Thorin's anger seemed to fate as he stared down at his father's warhammer. "You have brought nothing but grief and pain upon our people. Your forbearers offered no help when we needed it. We fought wars, and Rhudel profited. Our kingdom was taken from us, and Rhudel did nothing. My kin were in exile, and not a single hand was reached out in charity. Tell me, Khan, why should the Sons of Durin, or the people of Dale, help you."

"Because, ununited, we will all suffer a fate worse than death. And…if you swear an alliance against Sauron and help me dethrone the Council, I am prepared to grant your kingdoms and their fiefdoms independence again."

Again, a stiff silence filled the air, only broken when Brad began to tap his arrowhead against the table.

"How can we have assurance of this?"

"You have my word."

"Your word means nothing to me."

"I…" Hith had thought that the promise and the stakes alone would be enough to sway the kings, "I have to nothing to bargain with but for the circumstances of my approach. I came here alone, save for one bodyguard, at great personal risk. Beyond the risk of entering a city full of people who would love to see me dead, I could be dethroned or killed by the Council for defying Sauron. That is my word. I have nothing without you. We all have nothing without an alliance."

Bard and Thorin seemed to stare into Hith's soul, searching for any sign of dishonesty or ill intent. After a long moment, they looked at each other and, without a word, they stood.

"We will fight," said Bard, "but not for you. We will fight for our freedom."

"Erebor and the Iron Hills will do the same," Thorin took a final swig of his mead, "but make one move against us, if even one hair on my beard twitches wrong, I'll kill you myself."

"Alright then…we should discuss how to deal with the Council. I…"

"It's already prepared," Bard said as he pulled up his hood, "we will simply not put into effect the part of our plan where we have you killed."

Speechless, Hith turned as they stepped past him. As they left the hall, every patron, man and dwarf alike, stood and followed. A cold sweat broke across Hith's forehead as he noticed that they all carried swords and axes beneath their cloaks. Within moments, Hith was left alone in the tavern; alone except for Kama, his new friends, a very confused barkeep, and a very confused dancer.

 _Well, at least they agreed to fight. Now I just need to survive this war._

* * *

UPDATE:

Sorry for the short chapter this time, guys. I've had a ton of school work lately, plus I have had something come up (which is the main reason I'm writing this update). I have a writing project right now that I'm going to fight tooth and nail to get published, but I need to devote my writing time to that right now if I'm going to get it to a state where it could be picked up. If it doesn't end up working out, I'll post it here, but for now I'd like to keep it a secret. This is going to slow down my update schedule for RoS over the summer, especially if my new thing (which is Tolkien related, I'll tell you that) does end up going somewhere. Thank you everyone for the support and we'll see where all this stands as the year goes on.

Best of wishes to you all!

Michael


	10. Chapter 95: Pippin’s Fate

A Long Time after the Reclamation of the One Ring:

It was raining. It was cold. It was foodless. Pippin had never been so miserable in his life. He did not know how long and how far he had ran from the Battle of Pelenor Fields or how many of his friends had died while he fled. He tried not to think about it.

Rain began to drip into the cave where the dejected hobbit tried to hide from the world. Just as Pippin stood to find relief deeper in the cave, he fell back as a burst of light filled his eyes. When he could see again, Pippin gasped. Before him was what looked like a large, glowing green door made of some kind of liquid.

 _Could it be Gandalf?_

Pippin approached the glowing passage, though he bumped into a flailing figure that stumbled from the other side.

"Hey you suckers!" The person yelled to no one Pippin could see "Sorry it's been so long since the last update!"

"W...wh...what?" Pippin stammered. The strange man looked somewhat like a taller than average Hobbit, with a mess of shaggy brown hair and a crazed, sleep deprived look in in his eyes.

"OOOHHH Hey Pippin!" He embraced the Hobbit, who gagged when the man's alcohol laced breath hit his nostrils. "Sorry I never wrote anything about you. I kind of just thought you died on your way out of Chapter One!"

"Who the bloody hell are you?!?" Pippin yelled.

"Oh, I'm your Creator! Well not really, he's a much better writer than me, but I'm the writer of this shitty alternate reality fanfic. I'm pretty much the whole reason all of this went to shit, considering I gave the Ring back to Sauron, allowing him to kill Gandalf and all of your friends except for Aragorn who got turned into a wraith but Shadow of War stole that idea from me so now I'll probably have to change it."

"G...Gandalf is dead?" Pippin's eyes stung as his mind was filled with questions and his heart was filled with sorrow.

"Yep, oh and Sam died in the Dead Marshes in agony, Frodo got eaten by Shelob, and the Elves are murdering each other in a civil war based entirely on me watching Game of Thrones when I wrote chapter three and wanting a sex element in the story!"

Pippin curled up in a quivering ball and began to sob.

"Why?! Why would you do this to us?"

"Because I'm an asshole who likes to fuck with people's emotions! By the way, loyal readers," he began to talk to no one again, leaving the hobbit to sob, "I don't know when I'll ever start this back up again or even if I'll come back at all! Have fun wanting to know what happens! Now back to my miserable and passionless life of mediocrity!

LORDOFANGMAR, AWAY!!!!!!!

And he flew away into the sky, never to be heard from again (or until the next update).


	11. The Future of this Story and New Stuff

Hello followers,

I know you guys were looking forward to an actual chapter after my joke chapter, though sadly I don't really want to go any further with RoS for now. I really think that I've improved as a writer over the past year and if I'm going to do anything with RoS, it should be a complete rewrite. Once I feel the compulsion to do that, I'll take it completely seriously. No fourthwall-breaking dimension hopping this time. However, I'm really not feeling it right now so you'll have to wait a bit longer. On the other hand, I have two big projects in the works. Both are Middle-earth related and one is another fanfic.

My fanfic (Dark Lord Rising: the Secret History of the Second Age) is kind of like RoS, focusing on the 'bad guy's' perspective, though it follows Sauron's exploits in the Second Age along with a few other characters. Check it out on my page, I'd really appreciate it.

My second project is a Youtube video series called Shadow of War: Reconstructed. I won't spoil much, but it should kick ass. I should have the first video done in a couple weeks. If you're interested, you can go ahead and subscribe to my channel, Occasionally Competent Productions, here:

(Fixed Link) channel/UC9ZVx4bqgyAO_G10nhUcFGw

Thanks everybody for your patience and I hope you enjoy my new content.

-Michael S


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